TCOT Pretty Stones
by Old English D
Summary: Della's grandmother passes away and Perry takes her back home where surprises galore await them.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: Just borrowing these beloved characters and hoping I did them justice._

_A great big thanks to my cheerleader Michelle, who encouraged me for several months while an exciting baseball season, a traumatic World Series, and intermittent writer's block stalled this story. ~ D_

* * *

Chapter One

His favorite room in the apartment was her bedroom.

Not for the apparent reasons that make men snicker and women titter, such as what recently transpired between them in the bedroom, but because it was the room most like the woman herself: soft and sweet-smelling, feminine but not fussy, comfortable yet full of surprises.

Like the top drawer of the dresser where she kept her undergarments. Early in their relationship he had opened the drawer, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. The jumbled disarray of silk and lace had confounded him, delighted him, and enchanted him. She was an orderly person, meticulous in her habits and precise in the performance of her job, always neatly turned out, coiffure and make-up flawless. She had a place for everything, and everything was in its place, in her home and at the office. The hidden chaos within the dresser drawer afforded him a glimpse at how she managed to be the most perfect person he knew – because she funneled whatever sloppy tendencies she had into the storage of her lingerie.

He had asked her why the drawer was such a mess, and after suffering a moment of roaring silence and an eyebrow raised in perturbed rebuke was almost resigned to never knowing if his hypothesis was correct, she had suddenly shrugged. "It keeps me from going insane," she admitted.

It nearly drove _**him**_ insane knowing about it.

But the disaster in the drawer had given him a deeper understanding of her, a private knowledge that made him smile at odd moments when it crossed his mind, and because he was a man, the thought crossed his mind a lot. Like now, as he watched her glide across the floor toward the dresser, her elegant arm outstretched to open the drawer, her back to him. He knew without actually being able to see that her hand would easily pluck the exact scraps of silk she sought, her uncluttered mind able to steer the searching hand unerringly. He smiled.

She turned and took a few steps toward the bed, a handful of silk and lace in her hand, and proceeded to carefully fold the undergarments and place them in the suitcase that lay open at the foot of the bed. His smile became a grin.

"Why fold them now?"

She looked up at him with surprise. "That's what you do when you pack," she replied with matter-of-fact efficiency.

"But you're only going to throw them in a drawer again when we get to the lake. Why go to all the effort of folding?"

"Because there will be more room in the suitcase if I fold them." She continued with her task, a slight smile playing on her lips.

He settled back against the headboard contentedly, raising his arms and tucking them behind his head. "In case an event that recently took place in this room wasn't perfectly clear to you, I love you very much, Della Street."

She silently folded the last undergarment, closed the suitcase and pushed it aside, climbed up on the bed and crawled toward him over the bedspread and blanket that were as jumbled as the underwear in her drawer. Snuggling against his muscular body with a huge sigh, Della laid her head on his chest, over his heart. "You haven't said that in a while."

He pulled his arms from behind his head and wrapped them around her slenderness. "Shame on me."

"I'm not complaining," she said hastily, kicking herself for having brought up the fact. "I don't need constant declarations. Actions are eloquent enough for me."

He tilted her head up to his and gently kissed lips that were still swollen from less gentle kisses. "Good. Because I plan to be exceptionally eloquent in the upcoming couple of weeks."

She laughed. "So this was a sneak peak?"

He shook his head. "This was a warm-up, a reminder of what has been and what will be again."

She sat up and regarded him thoughtfully. "As if I could ever forget," she told him softly. "It's only been three weeks."

He gave her a mortified look. "Three weeks? My God, Della, how can you use the word 'only' in conjunction with three weeks? You have every right to be angry with me. _**I'm**_ angry with me."

"We had other things to think about, other things that needed to be attended to."

He stared at her, at her passion-tousled curls, at the pinkish irritation on her creamy skin caused by his day-old beard, at her honest eyes that were now downcast as she made excuses for him. Again. "Della, we've talked about this. I never want a case, _**any**_ case to get in the way of …"

"Lust?" She interjected with wicked mischievousness, eyebrows arched.

His eyes fairly glittered as he continued to stare at her. "Yes, I lust for you. I proudly admit it." He pulled her against him once again in a tight embrace. "Despite the fact you are the biggest brat on the face of the earth."

"You should be a poet, not an attorney," she said dryly. "Women all over the world have always longed to be lusted after and called brats."

"If we were in court, my dear, that statement would be referred to as exhibit A."

"If we were still in court, I might be using the word 'only' in conjunction with five weeks. Maybe six."

"Exhibit B," he announced.

She squirmed in his arms, but couldn't extricate herself. "I don't think I should be the one to…to always…I want…oh hell," she finished in complete frustration.

"Della, all you have to do is ask," he chided her gently.

"I don't want to have to ask! And I don't want you to have to ask, either. Why can't it just happen, like it used to? Like it did tonight?"

"Tonight was rather spectacular," he admitted with a touch of wistfulness in his voice.

She relaxed against him. "Yes, it was."

"How did we go from spectacular to this silly argument?"

"Because we are who we are," she replied with a shrug.

He pulled her closer, ran his fingers through her hair. "I thought we'd ironed out the wrinkles in our personal and professional relationships. I thought everything was working smoothly."

"I guess both relationships need constant ironing to remain smooth."

"I've always thought of ironing as drudgery. Has managing our two worlds become drudgery for you, Della?"

"No." Her voice was low and soft. "How about we not speak in metaphors?"

"Agreed. Know what? I think our trip to the lake can't happen soon enough."

"Agreed."

They were silent for long, blessedly comfortable moments.

"In case my reaction to the event earlier tonight wasn't completely transparent," Della suddenly spoke, "I love you, too."

* * *

Perry eventually roused himself to take a shower while Della finished packing for their annual trip to Harvey Sayers' lake house. They would not be leaving until Friday evening, and it was only Wednesday, but Della rarely left anything until the last moment, and getting her packing out of the way meant she could devote her attention to settling office affairs and unsuccessfully badgering Perry to pack. She would wind up packing for him Thursday night while he protested and got in her way, but she didn't mind, because their little packing skirmishes usually ended in the type of skirmish that had taken place tonight. And after three weeks of concentrating on a lying, scheming minx of a client instead of on each other, she was looking very much forward to packing his bags.

She snapped the incorrectly monogrammed suitcase shut with satisfaction. One more thing to cross off her list. Tomorrow she would tackle the backed-up correspondence, close out the trial case they had just ended, attend to the confidential files, and begin proof-reading the three briefs Mary, the head typist, had placed on her desk the previous week. Then on Friday she would return the briefs to Mary so that she and Joan would have work to do for the one week the office would remain open while she and Perry were on vacation. Of course, this plan of action was predicated on the reality that she could get Perry to concentrate on the tasks at hand. Routine matters bored him easily and he regarded correspondence as the height of wasteful activity. And although he prided himself on succinct legal briefs, he detested writing them, so it was a good thing she actually did most of the connective writing between the legal citings he selected. If she didn't have the specter of two weeks alone with Perry at the lake house in front of her, she didn't know if she could get everything done in two short days. Tonight at dinner she would broach the subject of him willingly submitting to weeding out the correspondence file and working on the briefs while she packed his bags Thursday night, so that they might leave the office on time Friday night and not have to interrupt their vacation time to handle a letter from a senator or an invitation for a lucrative speaking engagement.

Della listened to Perry as he sang snatches of songs in the shower, his deep voice not much more than a rumble behind the closed door. The same comfortable feeling that had descended after their tiff overtook her and she wished fleetingly that it could always be like this, knowing full well that it couldn't, that neither of them was meant to live life according to society's current conventionalities. Despite the past three weeks, and that week three months ago, and oh, those ten days over the Christmas holidays, she was more than content with their togetherness. Her apartment building was small and the neighbors nosey, so he rarely stayed the entire night, but he had a drawer in her dresser, a shelf in her medicine cabinet, and his robe hung on the back of the door alongside hers. She kept extra shirts, a suit, a dinner ensemble, and several ties in her closet as well. His apartment was similarly outfitted with feminine accoutrement, and since his building was enormous and his neighbors stand-offish, she occasionally spent the entire night in his king-size bed.

The shower was turned off and she heard the curtain being flung open violently. She sighed. His habit of grabbing the plastic and roughly flinging it aside had resulted in seven torn curtains in three years. After three ruined curtains he had begun to expense them and even went so far as to buy a spare that was kept in the linen closet. When she pointed out he could simply open the curtain like Clark Kent and not Superman, he merely flashed those irresistible dimples at her. When he grinned like that he won all the battles, and there was nothing she could do about it – except maybe use his razor to shave her legs.

She was just about to heave the second suitcase from the bed when his hand closed over hers. She jumped a bit at his sudden towel-wrapped appearance. "A lady as lovely as you shouldn't have to sling suitcases around," he declared, picking up the suitcase and setting it on the floor near the closet, next to the smaller suitcase that held her neatly folded underwear and pajamas. He eyed the packed suitcases with admiration. "Efficient as always, Miss Street."

"Some would say I over-do it."

"I would never say that. Without your propensity for efficiency, my life would be a tangled mass of conflict and unrest."

"Keep saying romantic things like that and Paul will be dining alone."

He grinned. "Don't think for a moment I haven't considered leaving him to his own devices tonight."

She ran her hands down the warm, damp skin of his chest to his waist, where one corner of the towel had been tucked in to secure it. "Shall we see if you're all talk, Mr. Mason?"

His hand grasped her wrist as he leaned down to kiss her. "I think you'll find that I'm not all talk," he cautioned. "How hungry are you?"

"Now that's a loaded question if I ever heard one. The answer will require quite a bit of analytical thinking, several mathematical equations, and at least one pie chart."

Perry rolled his eyes in response. "Your Honor, Exhibit C."

Della laughed. "Get dressed, darling. I'm starving and we're already running late." She seated herself at the vanity table and adjusted the clips of her garter belt that held up sheer silk stockings.

With a cheeky grin he flicked the towel from around his waist and reached for the clean clothes she had laid out on the bed for him. The suit he had worn all day was already in the basket to go to the dry cleaners, and she would pick up his discarded underwear from the bathroom floor later. As he pulled on boxers and a t-shirt, he watched her calmly apply the finishing touches to her make-up.

"I guess it would be a waste of good make-up and silk stockings not to keep our reservation," he conceded, his eyes feasting on her dance-like movements.

She blotted her lipstick with a folded tissue. "It would at that," she agreed. "Besides, it's tradition to have a celebratory dinner after the conclusion of a trial. We need to faithfully maintain a few traditions, don't you think?"

"Oh absolutely." He sat down on the unmade bed (which surprised him), pulled on socks, shoved his arms into the sleeves of his dress shirt, and quickly buttoned it, grateful she had selected a shirt that didn't require studs. He stood and stepped into his trousers as Della arose from the vanity and passed by him, the decadent scent of expensive perfume trailing behind her. It was moments like this that made life worthwhile. Murder cases and trials were stimulating and exciting in their own fashion, but Della's brand of stimulation and excitement was far more satisfying. If he could only find a better balance of the two, to somehow break the hold his profession had on him, so that these moments occurred with more regularity or at the very least lasted longer. She wouldn't marry him as long as he did what he did how he did it, yet he knew that if he didn't do what he did how he did it, she wouldn't work for him. The impasse established, they continued as they had for years now, he occasionally asking her to marry him and Della routinely refusing his proposals.

Della's sudden sharp cry of 'ouch!' followed by a rather florid curse broke into Perry's thoughts and propelled him across the room to the closet where she stood with a crooked finger in her mouth.

"What's the matter, baby?"

Della blinked furiously. "The dry cleaner used straight pins instead of safety pins to attach my dress to the hanger and one scraped my finger."

Perry gently pulled the injured finger from her mouth and pressed it against his lips. "I'll put on some mercurochrome and wrap a Band-Aid around it."

Della's eyes were huge as she looked up at him with just a bit of anxiety. "You'll blow on the mercurochrome?"

He chuckled softly. "Of course. Let's go into the bathroom so Dr. Mason can take care of you."

"Yes, Doctor. Oh, but the Band-Aids are in the kitchen. Cindy, the little girl from across the hall, came over the other day with a skinned knee. I was making tea at the time and put the tin in the cabinet next to the fridge."

Perry led Della from the bedroom, across the narrow hallway, and into the charming, old-fashioned bathroom. He had just put her hand under warm running water when the doorbell rang.

"I'll bet that's Paul," Perry said with a little frown. "He probably thought he was supposed to meet us here instead of at the restaurant."

Della laughed. "He knows perfectly well we agreed to meet at the restaurant. He just wants to raid my liquor cabinet."

"I'll get the door and send him on his way to hold our table as he should be doing right now. Keep that finger under water until it stops bleeding."

He backed from the bathroom and hurried to the door of Della's apartment. The bell rang again as he twisted the knob and pulled the door open. "Paul, you're a grown man, can't you follow simple directions…" his words halted in shocked surprise as he came face-to-face with his future.

Della, older and slightly shorter, stood in the hallway before him. The woman smiled a familiar smile and in a smooth, low voice eerily similar to the one he loved so much said, "I didn't expect a man to answer the door, but judging by your expression I'd say I'm in the right place."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"My name is Eve Wyman," the woman continued as Perry openly gaped at her. "But my last name used to be Street."

Perry remained uncharacteristically dumbstruck.

Eve Wyman regarded him with high amusement, her head cocked slightly to the right. Della cocked her head to the left when she gave him a similar look. Even their short dark curls were similarly styled, except that the woman's hair was shorter and parted on the opposite side than Della's, and was a lighter shade of chestnut brown. "Now I know for certain I'm in the right place. Is Maeve here?"

Perry regained a semblance of coherence with a shake of his head. "Maeve? There is no Maeve here." His voice sounded shaky in his ears. He knew she must be looking for Della, but why would she refer to her by that strange name? The woman was so obviously Della's mother, the mother who had abandoned her toddler daughter to be raised by a cold, rigid grandmother and a distracted, equally rigid father. The mother who had not made one attempt to see her daughter her entire life.

The woman gave a small grimace of distaste. "I'm sorry. They gave her that damnable woman's name, didn't they?" She grimaced again without expounding further. "I'm fairly certain you know who I am, and I believe I know who you are. Won't you invite me in for a proper introduction?"

"My name is Mason," he said, refusing to move, his large frame blocking the doorway protectively.

Eve Wyman accepted his rebuff calmly and studied him from beneath thick lashes. "It's Perry Mason, isn't it? I must say your picture doesn't do you justice, Mr. Mason."

"You've seen my picture?"

"Of course. How do you think I knew where to find Maeve…I mean _**Della.**_ I abhor that name," she admitted with a tiny shudder.

"I rather like it," he offered.

"You wouldn't if you had known the old battle axe," she replied evenly. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised they took away the name I gave her. In the end Katherine Street always gets her way. I assume her middle initial 'K' is for 'Katherine'? I was so hoping that D.M. Street in the Los Angeles directory was her, and not D.K. Street."

Perry neither confirmed nor denied the woman's assumption. He wondered if Della would possibly stay in the bathroom long enough for him to get rid of this woman. It would be better for everyone if the two women met elsewhere, on less personal turf, after he had gently broken the news to Della that the woman who had given birth to her and then abandoned her was inexplicitly standing outside her apartment twenty-five years later and wanted to see her.

His thoughts were barely formed when the bathroom door opened behind him and Della floated down the hallway into the living room. He remained in the doorway, desperately trying to obscure the woman who stood before him.

"Really, Chief," she scolded good-naturedly. "Let the poor man in. If he's so determined to deplete my scotch, we shouldn't deny him."

Eve Wyman gasped audibly, her eyes round and startled at the sound of her daughter's voice. She reached a hand up to smooth perfectly arranged curls. "Please," she whispered. "Let me see her. I don't deserve to, but please…"

He should have shut the door in her face, the face so like the face of the woman he loved, but while his brain wanted to, it couldn't convince his arm to actually do it. So he turned toward Della, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, still shielding her from the biggest shock of her life, and held out his hand. "Come here, Della," he commanded softly.

Della took a few steps tentative steps toward him, sensing something amiss from his posture. "What's wrong, Perry?" She halted several feet from him, one hand on her stomach, the other resting on the back of the couch. "Has something happened?"

"Please come here," he repeated.

She shook her head emphatically. "No. You come here." Every hair on her body was standing on end.

Damn her stubbornness. He knew she was beginning to get frightened by his behavior so he decided the element of total surprise would be best all the way around. He stepped away from the doorway.

"Oh," Eve Wyman breathed. Hand held against trembling lips, she advanced into the apartment and Perry was astounded to smell Della's perfume, the expensive scent she had herself applied mere moments ago. "Oh, you look just like me."

Della recoiled in utter shock, her knees suddenly weak as the older version of herself approached. She looked at Perry, confusion, hurt, and fear playing across her features.

"Della," he began gently. "This is Eve Wyman. She says she's your mother."

Eve laughed softly. "I think it's apparent who I am now that I see her. No wonder you couldn't speak when you first opened the door, Mr. Mason."

Della retreated, gripping the back of the couch for all she was worth. "No," she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "No, don't come any closer."

Perry moved quickly to Della's side, slid his arm reassuringly around her waist, regretful of the part he had played in her shock. "I'm sorry, Della. I didn't want to let her in at first, and then I thought maybe you should see her…"

"Why on _**earth**_ would I want to see her?" Della asked in a voice bordering on shrill. "She's never wanted anything to do with me. Get her out of here."

Eve Wyman stood awkwardly at one end of the couch while her look-alike daughter stood at the other end, curled into the arms of the big, dark haired man. She wondered what was between them that he would be answering the door and her daughter would be dressed in only a robe. "That's not true. I very much wanted to be a part of your life."

"You expect me to believe that? No calls…no letters…not even a lousy postcard. You left me and never looked back. Get out of my apartment."

Eve lowered her head sadly, then raised it and pinned a defiant look on Della. "I thought that being a legal secretary you would believe in the concept of innocent until proven guilty."

Della's eyes flickered momentarily. "There is overwhelming evidence to contradict what you claim," she said stiffly. "I've asked you twice to leave. You're very good at leaving. Please do it again."

"You haven't asked, you've ordered me," Eve Wyman pointed out testily before gathering herself again and speaking more calmly. "I don't expect you to be thrilled to see me. I took a chance on making our first contact in person instead of with a telephone call because I'm not a coward. I face things squarely and let the chips fall where they may."

"Abandoning your husband and child is facing things squarely? My dictionary has a very different definition of bravery than yours."

Perry was silent, listening to the two similarly-pitched voices volley back and forth, neither gaining nor giving up any ground. "Ladies, let me say that this apartment at eight o'clock in the evening after we've been in court all day is not the proper place or time for what you want to say to Della, Miss Wyman."

"_**Mrs**_. Wyman," she corrected archly. "Now that I'm here and she's reacting this way, I can see that it isn't."

"This is surreal," Della declared, pushing herself away from Perry. "You let this complete stranger in here without me knowing what was coming, and now you both act like I'm not being a proper hostess."

"I tried to tell you," Perry reminded her quietly.

"You should have been more insistent," she charged irrationally. "Do you actually think I need to listen to anything this woman has to say?"

"That's entirely up to you, Della."

She stared at him with narrowed eyes. "You do actually think I need to listen to her," she told him accusingly, incredulity and hurt interwoven in her words.

"I'll leave," Eve Wyman announced. "It's obvious I shouldn't have made a surprise visit like this."

"Damn straight," Della muttered.

Perry furrowed his brow. He had hoped Della would listen to this woman, if only to put to rest any lingering questions about why she had left, to fill in the gaps of the story her father, her grandmother, and her Aunt Mae would not tell her. In all the years he had known Della, she had mentioned her mother exactly once, her words sparse and devoid of emotion. _"I have a mother. Somewhere."_ And for quite a while he wasn't sure if Mae Kirby was Della's paternal or maternal aunt, until one day Mae mentioned that her maiden name had been Sherwood and he realized she was actually Della's mother's sister.

Della had an infuriating habit of dealing with things silently and alone, of burying events deep within herself and moving on as if they hadn't happened, so he shouldn't be terribly surprised by her reaction to meeting the mother who had left when she was just two years old. Her calm exterior hid depths he was still discovering, depths of pain that he suspected would make a weaker woman crumble. Her reticence about her childhood frustrated him, because even though she felt she had dealt with the reality of it, he could tell it bothered her that aside from Mae, the few relatives she had seemed not to care about her.

He didn't know this woman, this Eve Wyman, but he also didn't want Della to rashly shove aside someone who could love her, and whom she might learn to love in return.

Eve Wyman lowered her eyes once again, this time in apparent defeat. "This was a gamble," she spoke to the floor. "I expected you to be suspicious, but I had hoped you would allow me the benefit of the doubt. I can see that whatever your father and grandmother told you has affected you deeply."

"On the contrary, Mrs. Wyman," Della said with icy formality, "my father and grandmother told me exactly nothing about you. My perception of you was formed when you completely erased me from your life."

The older woman's head snapped up. "They never explained why I left? They never told you what happened? What about Mae? Didn't _**anyone**_ tell you _**anything**_?"

At the mention of her aunt's name, Della blinked, but her expression remained blank. "Actions speak louder than words," she offered a trifle lamely.

Perry nearly sighed out loud. "Della –"

She rounded on him. "Don't butt in, mister. I'll deal with you later." She turned back to Eve Wyman but Perry grabbed her arm.

"If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Wyman, I'd like a word in private with Della."

The grip on her arm tightened and she knew not to struggle against his will. She shouldn't have taken her anger and surprise out on him, but it wasn't every day that the mother who abandoned you showed up on your doorstep and frankly, she didn't know how to react to such a situation.

Perry closed the bedroom door behind them and firmly seated Della on the bed. She crossed her arms over her chest and all but stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.

"Della, I'm going to say what I think and I hope you'll open your mind a bit for me."

"I can't believe you're taking her side," Della complained bitterly. "Don't you see she's a phony?"

"I'm not taking her side, Della. You know better than that. Her resemblance to you satisfies me that she's your mother."

"Oh, she's my mother all right. It's everything else about her that's phony – I don't believe for a minute she's thought of me since she left. Why didn't she try to see me? Where has she been all my life? Why is she here now?"

Perry stood in front of her, his expression sober. "I'm afraid I don't have any answers for you, darling. Why don't you ask her those questions yourself?"

Della's shoulders slumped. Damn him for making the point perfectly clear. She drew in a shaky breath. "I'm being ridiculous," she told him, "but don't you think I have a right to be? I don't know who that woman is. She waltzes in here looking and sounding like me…" much to her horror and confusion, a huge tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

Perry sat next to her on the bed and gathered her into his arms. "Imagine my surprise when I had just left you in the bathroom and opened the door to find you staring back at me," he said with a catch in his voice. "At least we know what you'll look like in twenty-odd years."

"Nineteen," Della corrected with a little sniffle. "I was born two months after her nineteenth birthday."

"I didn't know she was so young."

"That's nearly all I know about her," Della admitted. She ran her hand under her nose. "So you think I should hear her out?"

Perry nodded. "She's your family, Della. Aside from Mae, you maintain that the rest of your family is a lost cause, but maybe you could have a relationship with your mother."

"I don't think I could ever love her."

"You don't know that, but I understand what makes you think it." His lips brushed hers lightly. "One thing I'm certain of – there is no way she won't love you once she gets to know you."

She hugged him hard.

"Why don't you get dressed while I go out and invite her to have dinner with us? A restaurant will be neutral ground, and if you don't want Paul to know this much about your past, we can give him a rain check. But I think having Paul around will be good. He can be a more objective observer than either you or I, and he can investigate her background if you'd like."

"That's actually a good idea. I won't mind if Paul hears the sad story of my childhood. Maybe it will keep him from teasing me so mercilessly."

"He only teases you because he's in reality a thirteen year old boy who has a crush on you."

She nodded. "And the thirteen year old girl in me has a crush on him too, but I have to be on my toes all the time around him. It's exhausting."

Perry laughed. "You don't have to be on your toes around me?"

She shook her head. "_**You**_ I have figured out."

Perry laughed again. "You certainly do, baby. Hurry and get dressed. Paul is probably on his third cocktail right now and fuming."

"I'll call the restaurant," she said, reaching for the bedside telephone. "Go out and invite that woman to join us. I promise I'll behave civilly toward her."

"That's my girl," he said approvingly.

* * *

Eve Wyman wandered around the small but neat and cozy apartment, noting the soothing colors and soft fabrics, the simple but good furniture, the thoughtfully placed knick-knacks. Her daughter clearly had taste, and a limited budget supplemented by what were more than likely gifts: a heavy cut crystal bowl and matching vase in which three dried yellow roses tied with bead-adorned white ribbons had been placed, elegant Corinthian column silver candlesticks, a flower patterned clock box. Her keen eye told her the beads were Swarovski, the crystal Waterford, the silver candlesticks Gorham, the clock sterling silver and Guilloche enamel. How could Maeve, a mere secretary, afford such exquisite items?

She shook herself. She had to remember that her daughter was called Della. Such a shame and a huge regret on her part that she hadn't insisted Katherine Street not change her child's name. She had fought for all she was worth to not follow the Street tradition of naming daughters after a great-grandmother and a grandmother, especially those two harridans whose mutual purpose in life was to make everyone around them miserable. And she had won. Her daughter was christened Maeve Marie, after her aunt, her mother, and her maternal grandmother.

Whenever she had thought of her daughter it had always been as Maeve – what did Maeve look like at five, at ten, at sixteen, at her high school graduation, at twenty-one? Was she married, did she have children? Then two days ago Elliott had shown her the picture of the noted attorney Perry Mason and his beautiful secretary, and she had known without reading the caption that the secretary was her daughter. It was a bitter disappointment to see the young woman's name, but the proof of her daughter's existence quickly overshadowed the disappointment as Elliott presented her with a new diamond bracelet as a belated Mother's Day gift.

She was staring at the green enamel clock box, lost in thought when Perry Mason returned to the living room. "It's beautiful," she said, looking up with a swift smile.

Perry nodded. The woman's resemblance to Della had struck him nearly dumb at first, as had the innate mannerisms they shared,but he now noticed subtle differences, however, in addition to the color of their hair: the color of their eyes, the shape of their mouths, the slope of their noses. "We found it at a little shop up north. I gave it to Della for her birthday last year."

"It's quite a gift for a boss to give a secretary."

"She's quite a secretary."

Eve Wyman regarded him that amused glance again, her head cocked to the side. "Mr. Mason, I know a boss doesn't give a secretary a gift like this no matter how well she performs her job. Do you think as her mother I'll disapprove?"

"Whether you approve or disapprove is neither here nor there, Mrs. Wyman. It is simply no one's business. Not even her mother's."

"Especially not her mother's, since her mother is a complete stranger," Eve pointed out, using her daughter's own words to describe herself.

"Perhaps your status of complete stranger can be overcome, Mrs. Wyman. Della and I would like to invite you to join us for dinner. We have a table waiting for us at a very nice restaurant downtown, as well as a business colleague who is probably three sheets to the wind by now."

Eve hesitated for a few seconds before replying. "All right, Mr. Mason. I would be honored to be your guest at dinner. I'd like to freshen up a bit, though. Do you think Maeve – _**Della**_ would mind if I used her powder room?"

Perry bowed slightly and swept his hand in the direction of the bathroom. "She won't mind at all. It's the first door on the right."

Eve glided past him and he was once again enveloped by Della's perfume. He lowered himself slowly to the couch after she closed the door of the bathroom, lit a cigarette, and took a long, deep, contemplative drag. This was going to be one hell of an interesting evening.

* * *

Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman dispatched with her business then stood at the sink and studied her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. The pink terry cloth robe hanging on a hook next to a decidedly masculine navy silk robe told her more than Perry Mason had been willing to impart. As if the robes weren't enough to confirm her suspicions, there were two toothbrushes in the holder, and a bottle of men's cologne with the cap off was precariously perched on the edge of the sink. She had to hand it to her daughter. She had hooked herself quite a catch in the enigmatic, handsome attorney.

She ran her hand down the smooth column of her neck, turned her head from side to side, critically assessing. Nary a wrinkle, bright clear eyes, trim figure. Not bad for a woman her age. She wasn't old, but she certainly wasn't the ingénue her daughter was. And if she wasn't mistaken, Perry Mason might be closer to her age than that of her daughter.

She quickly tidied her hair, reapplied lipstick, touched up her foundation, and snapped the compact shut with satisfaction. She was ready to face an evening that now had the potential to be so much better than she could ever have imagined.

* * *

Eve Wyman emerged from the bathroom and nearly bumped into Della, who was exiting her bedroom at that exact moment. She was dressed in a sleeveless black fit-and-flair dress, sublime in its simplicity, with long elegant lines, a sweetheart neckline and a matching bolero jacket, which she held in her hand. Her jewelry was a single strand of pearls and dangle earrings that positively glowed against her youthfully creamy skin. The pearls were obviously real, obviously expensive, and Eve thought them to be obviously another gift from the generous Mr. Mason.

"What a beautiful dress!" Eve exclaimed.

Della smiled faintly, not yet ready to give herself over completely to this woman, no matter what Perry thought. "Thank you. A very good friend is a dress designer."

"You must take me to her shop while I'm in town," Eve said conversationally, linking arms with her daughter. As she did so, she managed to glimpse the interior of the bedroom. The bed was unmade, sheets in total disarray, and there were suitcases lined up on the floor next to the closet. She gave her daughter an appraisingly surreptitious glance beneath false eyelashes.

"Perry invited you to dinner?" Della asked as they walked the short distance to the living room. She wanted to disentangle her arm from that of Eve Wyman and escape the curious looks the older woman sent her way. Just because she would be having dinner with them didn't automatically make the woman anything more than a stranger who just happened to have given birth to her, and the physical contact made her uneasy.

Eve Wyman squeezed her daughter's arm and nodded. "He did indeed. I'm very happy to be included in your plans, Della." She was quite pleased with herself for not stumbling over her daughter's name.

Perry was standing at the door, holding it open. "There you both are," he said. "All ready to go?"

Della handed him the bolero jacket and he held it out for her to slide her arms into. He gently passed his hand across her back in a subtle, encouraging caress before offering his arm to Eve Wyman.

Della closed and locked the door to her apartment as Perry escorted Eve to the elevator. She turned to follow them just as Eve reached up and straightened Perry's tie. The smile on her mother's face sent a jolt of undeniable unease through her. Oh boy, she was most definitely not going to enjoy this evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

E

Della took a dainty pull on her cigarette and stared down at the page taken from Perry's little notebook, and the perfect block letters he had used to write the name. MAEVE. Her real name was Maeve Marie, the first name a combination of two sister's names, the second name that of an unknown grandmother.

Della had never liked the fact she was named for two nasty grandmothers on her father's side of the family, two women who by all accounts begrudged each other the air they breathed. She had always felt no one cared enough about her eminent arrival to give her a name they liked, a name they dreamed about for their child, a name that wasn't so quaint and different from those of her contemporaries. Therefore names had fascinated her since childhood, when she daydreamed about being called Belinda or Julia, and never so much so as when Perry had given her a crash course in his family history several years ago before she attended Thanksgiving dinner with the entire Mason clan. A preponderance of alliterative name pairings had intrigued her, and made remembering a great number of people a snap.

"_You already know my parents were Lloyd and Lyla. My father's middle brother, Gerald is married to Ginny – not Virginia, just plain Ginny. Then there is my oldest uncle, Frank. He's a widower."_

"_Did Uncle Frank's wife's name begin with an 'F'? Maybe Florence or Francine or Fiona?"_

"_No," he had replied, a twinkle growing in his eyes. "Her name began with a 'P'."_

"_Oh," she had said, disappointed._

"_It was Phyllis."_

Della felt herself smiling and stealing a glance at Perry, remembering that time, when their feelings for one another were raw and virtually unspoken; when they stole kisses in the office and sought ways to be together outside of the office to steal more kisses; when he told her she could say stop whenever she wanted, but she never did because she never wanted him to stop. And now here she was, closer than she had ever imagined she could be to another person, and she wasn't sure who she was anymore. Her eyes again dropped to the scrap of paper on the table.

E

She felt empty knowing that her identity was so clouded. Had her father and grandmother made the name change legal, or was she still Maeve Marie and not Della Katherine in the eyes of the law? Would she have to go through the motions of legalizing the change after so many years, or should she continue life with the name this woman had given her? Her smile faded to a frown. How had no one ever slipped and called her Maeve? How had she lived her entire life not knowing something as important as this? Should she believe this woman when she said she had been too young for marriage and motherhood and incapable of standing up to her mother-in-law?

Perry watched his secretary lost deeply in her thoughts while Paul doggedly asked a litany of questions which Eve Wyman answered in a calm, careful manner. He knew Paul's questioning had begun out of concern for Della, but as they continued steadily through cocktails and dinner and now into after-dinner coffee, Perry suspected that Paul was enjoying Eve's company immensely and the questions were a means to prolong the evening. He had to admit that she was a good conversationalist, bright and alert and clever, flirtatious but not overtly so, animated and friendly, yet demure and serious when appropriate. She was extremely attractive, was aware of the fact, and used it to her advantage. She was also hiding something, Perry would bet his practice on it.

The cigarette Della had lit and taken two tiny drags on had burned almost completely to ashes, forgotten as her thoughts consumed her attention. Perry leaned over, plucked it from her fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He then pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and held out his hand to her. "Dance with me," he said quietly.

Della looked up with unfocused eyes and blinked once. Her smile returned. "Gladly," she replied just as quietly.

Without a word of excuse to Paul and Eve Wyman, Perry escorted Della onto the dance floor and took her into his arms. She nestled against him closer than she might normally in public, and he followed her lead, pressing her slenderness to his chest as he settled into a smooth waltz. His lips grazed her forehead.

"I thought you could use a break from that episode of '_This is Your Life_'."

"Shhh, don't say anything. I'm savoring the silence."

Perry grinned into her soft curls. "I think Paul is smitten. Our usually laconic detective is positively giddy."

"What is your impression of her?"

Perry hesitated.

"That bad?"

"Nooo," he said slowly. "I really don't want to commit to anything based on dinner conversation."

"Dinner conversation? You call that eloquently sad story she told dinner conversation?"

"We did put her on the spot, darling. You must admit she's comported herself admirably in the face of a lot of personal questions."

Della leaned back and tilted her head to see his face. "Good grief, that's the vaguest, most conciliatory thing I've ever heard you say. You size up people with great accuracy every day. If she was a potential client would you think she's being truthful or would you be suspicious of her?"

Perry led her around nearly the entire dance floor before answering. "I would be suspicious of her," he admitted finally. "I don't think she's told us the exact truth. Everything sounded rehearsed and dull."

Della pursed her lips. "I thought so. It's all so much to take in. My head is spinning."

Perry tucked her back into the security of his arms. "I know, baby. We'll get everything down on paper tomorrow and –"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, we don't have time to waste on this if we're going to get out of town on time Friday night. You have a full day tomorrow, and I have a staff to prepare for our absence."

"There is nothing wasteful about getting to know your mother, Della. If you won't do it tomorrow, we'll do it at the lake."

"You're crazy. Do you really expect me to take dictation on my vacation?"

"How exactly do you want to handle it, then? Don't you want to be able to ask your father and grandmother and especially Mae about what Eve has told us?"

"I don't know what I want. I need time to process everything. I just found out I'm a completely different person than I thought I was."

"How's that? Just because your name was changed? We'll make sure it was done legally, because frankly, I don't think I could get used to calling you Maeve." He smiled down at her.

"If I had known the truth from the beginning, if those closed up people would have told me…how could no one have told me?" Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. "If I had known why she left…why didn't Aunt Mae tell me? Of all people…she should have told me."

The lovely waltz came to an end and the musicians filed from the orchestra stand for a break. Perry held Della close as the other dancers around them drifted from the dance floor back to their tables. "I wish I could tell you, Della. Remember, we only know Mrs. Wyman's story. We'll pay Mae a visit when we return from the lake and get her version of your childhood."

Della rubbed her eyes wearily, leaving faint smudges of mascara. "Will you take me home now? I've got a bit of a headache."

"I was about to suggest that we say goodnight. I'm sure Paul won't put up a fight if we ask him to drive your mother to her hotel."

Della flashed a wan smile. "If my head wasn't about to explode I'd say something terribly snide to him about how friendly he's being toward her. Will you stay with me?"

Perry slipped his arm around her shoulders, inordinately pleased that she was turning to him and not away from him during this very personal ordeal. "Whatever you want, darling."

* * *

"So what's _**their**_ story, Mr. Drake?" Eve Wyman asked, nodding her head in the direction of the dance floor.

"Perry's and Della's? It's a very boring story. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. Boy and girl keep to themselves."

Eve frowned ever so slightly. "Are you saying you don't know anything about their relationship?"

Paul lit a cigarette, shook out the match and leaned back in his chair. "I won't say I know nothing. I know exactly as much as they want me to know."

"Isn't it rather odd for friends not to know such things about one another?"

"Not at all. They want privacy and I give them privacy. And they extend the same courtesy to me."

"You, Mr. Drake, are as frustratingly obtuse as your attorney friend."

"And that is why I'm his friend."

Eve regarded Paul with a speculatively perturbed look. "As her mother I'm naturally curious about her personal life, Mr. Drake. I'm not sure I like the fact that my daughter appears to be romantically involved with her boss –"

Paul's derisive snort interrupted her words. "Mrs. Wyman, you have no more motherly instincts than I have. You are interested in Perry yourself and want to know exactly how far their relationship goes."

Eve Wyman fought to hold the flush creeping across her cheeks at bay. "You couldn't be more wrong, Mr. Drake," she denied coolly, sipping calmly at her champagne cocktail.

Paul took a deep drag on his cigarette and smiled at her through a grey haze of exhaled smoke. "I think I couldn't be more right," he drawled. "He's always been irresistible to the female population at large, damn him, but for the most part he's unaware of it. I'm not saying he hasn't been around the block a time or two, but he doesn't toy with women. He's selective." Paul nodded, pleased with that description of the attorney. "And the woman he has selected is Della. For several years now."

"That's all very interesting," Eve Wyman matched his drawl, "and I must say it makes me feel slightly better about my daughter's involvement with him."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Wyman," Paul Drake replied agreeably.

"Tell me your story, Mr. Drake. You've listened so intently to my story tonight. I'd like to hear yours."

"Oh, my story is even more boring than Perry's. I'm an inveterate womanizer. I like women – lots of women. You see, I get bored easily."

Eve Wyman set down her champagne glass as her eyebrows curved upward in interest. "You and I actually have quite a bit in common, Mr. Drake. I bore easily as well."

"This evening just keeps getting better and better," Paul declared, picking up his own cocktail glass and draining it in a single gulp.

* * *

Della rolled from her left side to her right side and sighed mightily.

"Della."

She started at the sound of his voice, having almost forgotten that he was lying beside her. "I'm sorry, darling," she apologized softly.

"If you can't sleep, why don't we both just give up trying and talk this out. Or write it down as I suggested earlier."

"No, you need your sleep."

"It's becoming quite obvious I'm not going to get any sleep."

She sat up and pulled her knees close to her chest. "I'll go out into the living room so I won't disturb you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I thought we agreed that I could be ridiculous." She laid her head on her knees and smiled at him in the semi-darkness.

"Perhaps, we did, but I didn't think being ridiculous would keep you up all night, and therefore, me." He patted the mattress next to him. "Come here and tell me what's bothering you the most right now."

She settled herself on her side in the crook of his arm; her head resting on his shoulder, one of her legs nestled between his. "I don't know where to start," she began.

"Your name?"

"Maeve isn't completely heinous, and she did put thought into it. I appreciate that. What bothers me about the name change is that I had absolutely no idea. How could no one have ever slipped and called me Maeve?"

"I have no answer for that. But I'll tell you this: I much prefer Della over Maeve. I would go so far as to say Della is my favorite name."

"Aren't you gallant, Mr. Mason."

"I do what I can to please."

Della kissed his shoulder. "You do please me," she told him. "But I think now that the original shock has worn off, my only concern about the name change is that it was done legally."

"That's a cinch. Paul will have that information for us first thing tomorrow morning."

"Good old Paul." She traced idle little circles on his broad chest with her fingertips.

He stifled a sharp intake of breath as her nails continued their patterns, barely grazing his skin. "Yes, good old Paul." He hoped she hadn't picked up on the current running between the detective and her mother when they returned to the table to offer their good-nights. "How angry are you at Mae for not telling you anything about when you were born, or anything about your mother?"

"I'd prefer if you wouldn't refer to that woman as my mother."

"She is your mother, Della. That fact is all but irrefutable. Paul should have confirmation of that as well rather quickly."

"I know, but calling her my mother is bestowing an honor on her she doesn't deserve and one which she certainly didn't earn. Just because she gave birth to me…do you understand what I'm saying?"

"As frightening as it is, I understand completely what you are saying."

"You missed your calling," she said dryly. "You should be a vaudeville comic."

"Vaudeville is dead," he reminded her.

"Sarcasm is sadly lost on you. That was not a compliment."

"Stop deflecting. What is it that has you tied up in knots?"

She didn't answer immediately, and when she did, it was in such a quiet voice he almost couldn't hear her. "I don't know."

Perry hugged her tightly to him and kissed her forehead. "Oh, baby."

"I've spent my entire life not thinking about her, so I don't know what to do now that she's here. Should I be happy? Should I be angry? Should I have thrown her out on her ear and gone on blissfully with my life, or was taking her to dinner and listening to her tell a story I can't possibly confirm or deny actually the right thing to do? I just don't know."

"And you don't like not knowing." He didn't like her insular approach to painful subjects, the way she excluded him from her thoughts as she dissected, categorized, diffused, and buried them and she would probably not understand how happy it made him that she was sharing her thoughts with him at this moment.

"No, I don't, not about this particular situation. I don't trust my reactions or my intuition…I feel…alone."

"One thing you definitely aren't, Della, is alone. I'm right here." He felt a warm wetness on his skin and realized she had begun to cry. Her tears made him feel helpless, and he had to find a way to conquer that for her sake.

"Yes, you are, and I'm so lucky, Perry. I can't explain it yet, not even to myself."

So she hadn't really entrusted him with her deepest thoughts after all. A thought came to him, one that he wasn't particularly pleased about, but he had to put it out there, in case it was what she needed in order to come to grips with this new development in her life. "Do you want to go to the lake by yourself? Maybe some time alone will bring everything into perspective." Meeting her mother was something he was willing to let her brood over by herself if she felt the need.

Della snuggled deeper into his arms. "Oh God, no. That's not an option at all."

Her lips were salty from tears as he tasted them for long silent moments. "You don't know what it means to me to hear that," he breathed huskily.

"You don't know what it means to me to be able to say that."

"You're not alone, Della. I promise you'll never be alone." She let out an unexpected, enormously vocal yawn and he chuckled. "Does that mean you might be able to get some sleep?"

She nodded against his shoulder, stifling another yawn. "Just don't let go of me, okay?"

"Never, ever, ever," he vowed.

* * *

The phone rang and without thinking he grabbed it and placed it against his ear. "Mason."

There was scratchy silence for a moment, then the sound of a throat being cleared, and an unfamiliar male voice spoke. "Is Della Kath – is this Della Street's residence?"

Perry rolled his eyes at his lapse of decorum and shot a glance at the closed bathroom door, behind which could be heard the shower. "It is. However, she's unavailable at the moment."

Another few seconds of static greeted his words. "I see. Did you say Mason? Are you Perry Mason, her employer?"

"Yesss," Perry replied carefully. "Who might you be and why are you calling so early in the morning?"

"I'm her brother, and I might ask you why you are answering my sister's phone so early in the morning, Mr. Mason."

"We have an appointment and I came by to pick her up. She doesn't have a car and I didn't want her taking an early bus." The fib emerged smoothly, based somewhat in fact. He dug into his memory for Della's brother's name, but it eluded him.

"I see," the voice said again, unconvinced. "When will Della be available to speak with me?"

"Not for quite a while, I'm afraid," Perry fibbed again. Carter. Her brother's name was Carter. "We're running late as it is, and we have a very busy day ahead of us, Mr. Street. You can tell me whatever it is you're calling about and I'll pass it along to Della."

"Mr. Mason, I know about your…_**involvement **_with my sister, but I don't think that entitles you to be privy to family matters."

"Let's cut the crap, Mr. Street. I'm going to find out anyway why you called, so you may as well tell me directly. You can be assured I'll tell Della." There was no way in hell he was going to allow Della in her current state of mind to talk with her tightly wound brother.

The long distance connection crackled and hissed once more as Carter Street absorbed Perry Mason's words. "All right, Mr. Mason, have it your way. Would you please tell Della that our grandmother is in the hospital and is not expected to live much longer than a few hours. Our father would appreciate it if Della graced us with her presence as soon as possible."

Perry was momentarily stunned at the unexpected request. "I'll tell Della when she's available," he promised in as formal a manner as Carter Street's tone of voice.

"See that you do, Mr. Mason." Then Carter Street hung up the phone.

Perry slowly placed the receiver in the cradle. He stared at the instrument with his lips pursed in thought, then turned on his heel, strode across the hall, and jerked opened the bathroom door without knocking just as the shower was turned off and Della pulled back the curtain. She let out a little yelp.

"Good grief, Perry, when did you come in here?"

"Your brother just called," he blurted. Damn, he was no good at delivering monumental news, always charging in like a herd of elephants.

"Carter? What on earth…why did you answer the phone?" She grabbed a towel from the bar and wrapped it around her slender, dripping body, stepping from the tub at the same time.

"I wasn't thinking. It rang, and I was there, so I picked it up. Della, your grandmother is in the hospital and your brother said she doesn't have much time left."

Della hugged the towel tightly around her. "And?"

"And your father has asked for you to come home."

"I see." She moved past him to stand between the sink and the commode.

"Is that all you have to say?" It occurred to him that her brother had said those very same two words twice in their short conversation.

"Yep." Della reached for a bottle of pink lotion that sat on a glass tray on the back of the commode. She calmly poured a dollop into the palm of her hand and lifted one long, elegant leg to rest on the lowered lid. She bent forward and began to calmly apply the lotion.

"I know you don't hold much affection for her, but she's dying. Can't you muster the tiniest bit of grief?"

"Nope." She lowered the one leg, lifted the other, and slathered it with the fragrant pink lotion as well.

Perry ran his hand through his hair. Maybe this news on top of her mother's unexpected appearance was simply too much for her. "Darling, we have to call the airline – no, we'll call Byron and have him fly us."

"Where do you get this 'we' stuff? She's _**my**_ grandmother and _**I'm**_ not going anywhere. Not until tomorrow, that is, when _**we**_ head to the lake for two glorious weeks." Her hands were now rubbing the lotion up and down her arms unhurriedly.

He grasped her slippery lotion-covered upper arms and shook her gently. "Della, look at me."

Her eyes were large and surprised when she did as bidden. "What's your problem?"

"At this moment my problem is you. Your grandmother is dying and your father has asked for you. They may not be your favorite people in the world, but they are your family and they are reaching out to you. You're going if I have to drag you all the way by your hair."

"I'll be screaming the whole time," she warned, her posture stiff and defiant. "We have far too much to do, and I'm not happy about giving up a single day of our vacation."

"Scream all you want. We are going."

She dropped the towel from her body and turned her back on him. "Get out of my bathroom. I have to finish dressing."


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: I apologize for the little glitch in chapter 3 where twice you see merely a capital 'E'. It was perfect in view, but when posted the word disappeared and with it, I fear, the intended impact. What posted as 'E' was in reality ' E'. ~ D_

* * *

Chapter 4

They entered the office through his private door off the back corridor and Della sailed right into her own office without a word or backward glance. She hadn't spoken much since he'd put his foot down and insisted that they would fulfill her father's request for her to be at her grandmother's bedside for what could be her last minutes on earth, and had remained in the car stewing while he'd driven to his apartment and hastily packed his bags. He had been looking forward to Della packing his things tonight, and to what usually happened when she packed for their trips, but the situation with her grandmother made that particular anticipation seem tawdry. Even though Della held little or no affection for her grandmother, it appeared to mean something to her father that his daughter be there as his mother passed, and he wasn't about to let her ignore family obligations – no matter how much she protested or how much her silence irked him.

The door closed behind her with a little bang, and he stared after her with frowning frustration. He remembered exactly one other time she had ever slammed a door, when she had been angry and disappointed with him and lost her grip on her temper. She'd apologized later and even made a joke about it, but he doubted she would apologize or make a joke this time. He snatched the receiver of his private phone and almost savagely dialed Paul Drake's number. Margo, his secretary, all too familiar with the attorney's moods, patched him right through to the P.I.

"What have you got, Paul?" He demanded without a greeting.

"And a hearty good morning to you, too, sport," Paul returned good-naturedly.

"I don't have time for niceties," Perry replied impatiently. "Something's happened. Tell me what you've found out."

"Well, first and foremost, a Photostat of a duly filed legal change of name for one Maeve Marie Street, aged twenty-seven months, to Della Katherine Street will be put in the mail to you today."

Perry relaxed somewhat. "Good. She'll be glad to hear that. What else?"

"Right now just a lot of broad information. Faulkner and Johnson are working on getting details about everything as we speak. The biggest news is that Eve Wyman has been married and divorced three times, and is currently engaged to a man named Elliott Nowak, a successful financier in Fresno. We didn't find where they've filed for a marriage license yet."

"Where has she been keeping herself all these years?"

"Here and there. Illinois, Florida, Texas, and Arizona mostly since leaving her home town. She's actually been in Fresno for nearly a year."

Perry rubbed his jaw. "That close, eh? She admitted to seeing a picture of me and Della. It's not inconceivable that news of my trials could have made it into the Fresno papers. Any idea of her financial status? Her clothes are expensive and her jewelry looks real."

"Not sure yet. Three divorces is a lot to investigate. What we know for sure is that they were all Reno divorces. It's going to take quite a bit of digging and out-of-state assistance to come up with settlement information."

"What have you found out about her divorce from Jameson Street? Jameson Walker Street."

"Gotta love that name. Jameson _**Walker**_ Street. Faulkner's working on the divorces. It's early, Perry, we don't have a lot to report."

Perry was going to let Paul's childish observation pass but decided that any information about Della's family might be helpful to the detective. He knew the names of her relatives, but very little else. "There is a tradition in the Street family to give first-born sons their mother's maiden name and their father's first name. Della's paternal great-grandmother's maiden name was Della Walker; therefore her grandfather's first name was Walker. Her paternal grandmother's maiden name was Jameson; hence her son is Jameson Walker Street, Della's father."

"You'd think they would have more sense than to saddle a kid with a name like that. Great Granddaddy Walker must have hated filling out last-name-first forms."

"You would think," Perry agreed with a genuine laugh this time. "Della is keen about names, and when I asked her why, she told me about her family's tradition. Some of the names are quite interesting."

"What was old Walker's middle name?"

"I believe it was Milliron."

"I'm going to send my mother a dozen roses to thank her for naming me Paul Thomas. Her maiden name was Smeenge."

Perry was laughing when the connecting door opened and Della breezed into the office with an armload of mail. She crossed the floor, nudged him aside with her hip, pulled his satchel briefcase from the knee well of his desk, and summarily dumped the correspondence in it. Leaving the briefcase on his desk, she spun and once more sailed from the office. She didn't slam the door this time, but she might as well have. Perry sighed.

"What's the matter, Perry? I assume from your silence that everyone's favorite legal secretary just came and went. I can smell her perfume through the phone. Tough night?"

"The night wasn't nearly as tough as the morning. Her brother called very early to tell Della that their grandmother is dying and her father would like her to come home. She's peeved with me right now because I'm forcing her to go."

"Wow, let's pile one shock after another on the poor kid. I take it you're going with her?"

"If I don't take her, she won't go. She's never wanted me to meet her family aside from Mae and my insistence that we fly out right away has brought on a little temper tantrum. Speaking of family, how did it go with Eve Wyman after Della and I left?"

Perry could almost hear a shrug in Paul's voice. "Not much to tell. Once you left and took all your charm and debatable good looks with you she lost her festive mood. She finished her cocktail, I had another cigarette, and then I drove her to the Rexford. "

Perry whistled. "On the swanky side, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know. I escorted her to the elevator and then left."

"She didn't try to seduce you?"

"Of course she did. Tried all the tricks, some subtle, some not so subtle."

"And you resisted?"

"Perry, your lack of confidence in me is like a knife to the heart. She's Della's mother. Even I have standards." Paul's voice was pained. "I will admit I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when you showed up with _**two**_ Della Streets on your arm. Although up close Della is far more attractive."

"That's a load off my mind, because I get the impression Mrs. Wyman is trouble with a capital 'T'. Just a gut reaction, but I think Della had the very same reaction. She's confused and upset and it's driving her crazy to figure out why her mother chose now to reappear in her life."

"Well, she won't have to handle it for a few days since you're headed out of town and she has her grandmother to think about. I'll keep an eye on Eve personally if you'd like. Purely as a professional courtesy," he added hastily.

Perry tried to keep sarcasm out of his reply. "That would be greatly appreciated, Paul, now that I know I can trust you around her. I'll call you for updates."

"Abridged or unabridged?"

"I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about her. Indiscretions, criminal activity, broken hearts, shoe size, hangnails, bad haircuts, _**everything**_. Consider Eve Wyman the subject of your doctoral thesis in investigative processes. Della insists she has no feelings in regard to her mother, but my trick knee is telling me that woman has the capacity to hurt her tremendously and I'm not about to let that happen."

"I'm right there with you, Perry. Let me get back to the phones."

"Paul?"

"Yes."

Perry hesitated. "Thanks," he said heavily. It sounded inadequate to him.

"Remember this little moment when you get my bill, pal."

Perry had hung up the phone but was still chuckling when Della swung open the door again. This time her arms were laden with stacks of flimsy and her hands full of blue and red grease pencils. She set everything down on his desk, stuffed the flimsy into pasteboard folders, rubber-banded the grease pencils, stuffed it all into the satchel, snapped the latch, lifted it from his desk, and lugged it back across the office. It amused him immensely the lengths she went to let him know how angry she was.

"I take it we're leaving through the front door?" A smile twitched at his lips.

She ceased walking but didn't turn around. "I am," she bit out. "You can leave through whatever door you want."

He reached her in literally two long strides and placed his hand on her arm. "Della, get it out of your system now, because you really don't want to act like this in front of Byron, do you?"

"I wouldn't have such a quandary if you'd respect my wishes," she told him, her jaw stiff.

"Come on and give it to me, right on the chin. I'll even make it easier for you and stick it out further. Your behavior is childish, out of character, and I'm appalled. If the situation were reversed you would be all over me, reminding me about family obligations, and telling me how important family is."

Della abruptly dropped the satchel and turned on him, fists clenched at her sides, her face flushed a deep, angry red. "That's because everyone in your family is a human being!" she fairly shouted. "They care about you! And even though at this particular moment I'm finding it difficult to understand why, quite a few of them actually love you. You have no idea what my father and brother are like, let alone that abominable woman you want me to honor by dropping everything and pretending to be upset she's dying. Believe me when I say I couldn't care less, because not one of them ever cared about me. No one wanted me, no one loved me. No one wanted me…" she repeated. She was too angry with him to cry, and she willed herself to remain that angry so she wouldn't cry. He couldn't abide her tears, and his resolve crumbled whenever she did cry. She wanted to win this without tears, wanted to win based on the stark reality of her sad, empty childhood.

Perry touched her face with exquisite tenderness. "_**I**_ want you," he said simply. "_**I**_ love you."

Her beautiful eyes, so stormy and dark with anger mere seconds ago, welled with tears that made them glisten like gold. She stood an arm's length from him, staring unblinkingly into his eyes as the tears spilled over her lashes and slid down her cheeks. Damn. He'd won.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Pipp Memorial Hospital, where Katherine Street lay in a coma, had opened exactly one day after the birth of her only granddaughter Della…or should her infant self be referred to as _**Maeve**_? Della wasn't sure any more what to think of herself, but thought it fitting that the hospital in which she had been born was now an asylum for the mentally disturbed. Perry found it downright hysterical, and she knew she would regret telling him about it for the rest of her life.

The hospital was large and square, with a façade of blonde brick, and was positioned just yards from the highway that divided the small town in which she grew up from the next small town. Perry steered the rental car, a clunky four-year-old Ford Galaxie Club Sedan, into the visitor parking lot that stretched out in front of the eyesore of a building. He squinted at the glare of the sun ray's bouncing off the light-colored brick.

"Yikes," he said.

Della laughed. "It is ugly, isn't it?"

"The only thing uglier is this car." He slid from beneath the wheel, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Della took his hand and was quickly standing next to him, shaking out her skirt in the way he simply had to pause and admire.

"Buildings tend to be on the Spartan side around here," Della explained. "It's felt that money is better spent elsewhere."

"Mr. Pipp certainly took that feeling to heart when he endowed this hospital." He placed his hand at the small of her back and piloted her across asphalt turned mushy from the intense heat of the day toward the main entrance, which was simply two very plain metal and glass doors. The hospital name wasn't even painted on the glass.

"According to my grandmother, Mr. Pipp had no heart. And she would know, because she doesn't have one, either."

Perry jabbed at the elevator button as he took in the plain, uninviting lobby of the hospital. The walls were a lifeless pale grey, the furniture Bauhaus bent metal chairs upholstered in a darker shade of lifeless grey. Absolutely nothing adorned the walls. He shivered, despite the warmth of the day. "Bitterness does not become you, my dear."

Della wrapped her hands around his forearm. "I can't help it," she sighed. "You have no idea how much I don't want to be back in this town. I thought I had put it behind me when I told them all off and Carter shoved me onto a plane two and a half years ago."

"Look at it this way – you can pay him back in person now."

"Oh, I'll pay him back," she vowed.

Perry shook his head. "Della…"

"I promised I'd behave, and I will." She smiled at him a bit crookedly. "Eventually."

The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened slowly. "Come on, brat," Perry said, taking her by the elbow, "time to be a grown up."

Della's feet suddenly turned to lead. "Perry, I – I…can't…I don't want to go in there."

"Darling, she's your grandmother. Go in and say goodbye to her."

"I don't know if I can. You don't understand. She never had any use for me. It doesn't matter if I say goodbye to her or not."

Perry placed his hands on either side of her face and looked deeply into her distressed eyes. "Yes, it does."

"You think I'm a better person than I am, Perry."

"Della, you are the best person I know. You'll be fine."

"Tell me what to say," she begged.

He shook his head. "I can't do that, kiddo."

"Why are you making me do this?"

"Because all reports to the contrary, you grandmother is a human being, and she's dying. Say goodbye to her. You don't want to have any regrets."

She brought her hands up to grasp his wrists. "Oh darling, I'm sorry. If I had been thinking…"

He slid his thumbs over her lips, cutting off more words before the conversation took a turn he didn't want to navigate. "This isn't about me. This is about you and your grandmother."

Della swallowed hard and let her eyes wander down the hospital hallway toward the room where her grandmother lay. "Come in with me."

"No, it wouldn't be proper to be introduced to your family that way."

"I don't give a fig about propriety right now. This place is strangled by propriety. It's drowning in propriety. People dine on propriety, bathe in propriety, gossip about propriety. I can't do this without you. I need a friend."

What on earth did the people in her family do to her that the bright, confident, capable woman he knew was now this cowed, insecure, needy woman standing before him? If only she had talked to him about her family, but she hadn't, not ever, not really. He'd tried to pry eleventh hour information from her on the plane, but the more he pried, the more agitated she became, closing herself off from him until he admitted defeat and suggested that they put in writing everything they knew about her mother. Looking into her troubled and panicked eyes he suffered a momentary regret for forcing her to submit to her father's wishes – delivered not by the man himself, but via the proxy of his son – but he couldn't stand the thought of her going through life without closure in regard to the grandmother who had raised her with what appeared to be outright disregard.

"Della Katherine."

The voice was chilly and sharp, lacking in any semblance of affection. Perry and Della turned to face the man who had literally crept up on them and was standing a scant two feet away. His grey-blue eyes glittered with coldness for Perry and disapproval for Della simultaneously.

Della's fingernails dug into the skin of Perry's wrists. "Father," she acknowledged formally. Perry jerked his arms from her grasp as the pressure of her nails became painful.

"It's about time you arrived. We expected you an hour ago."

A sickening déjà vu swept over Della. The last time she had come home, her grandmother had said virtually those same words to her in greeting. And promptly slapped her face. "We had difficulty arranging for the rental car," she explained stiffly.

Her father's expression of disapproval moved from his eyes to his thin lips, which he pressed together in a tight line. "You should have taken a taxi. There was no need to rent a car." He turned to the man at her side. "And who is this?"

Perry thrust out his hand toward Della's father, a tall, thin man in his early to mid-sixties with a surprising shock of silver hair. "Perry Mason."

The older man didn't offer his name, and didn't accept the attorney's outstretched hand, but looked to his daughter with impatient expectance. Perry continued to hold out his hand with marginally less impatience.

"Father, this is my boss, Perry Mason. Perry, my father, Jameson Street."

Then and only then did Della's father grip Perry's hand in a formal hand shake.

* * *

The hospital room was small and dark and incredibly warm. Perry immediately began to sweat, and even Della wilted visibly in the oppressive heat. A man rose from a chair positioned near the head of the bed in which the matriarch of the Street family lay, formidable even while in a coma, and faced the trio as they entered the room.

Perry was surprised at how much Carter Jameson Street resembled his half-sister. Knowing now that Della strongly resembled her mother and had inherited no discernible traits from her father, he found it interesting that he could easily pick Della's brother out of a crowd. His eyes were a deep shade of grey not hazel, but the wavy chestnut hair, straight nose, and bowed lips were a masculine version of Della's. He was about Perry's age, not quite as tall, not nearly as broad and muscular, and he made no attempt to hide his displeasure that his sister had arrived with a stranger in tow.

"I take it you're Perry Mason," he said in a distinct geographical flatness of voice.

Della refused to release Perry's hand, her body turned away from the sight of the old woman lying in the bed, and Perry decided not to bother offering his hand this time. "I am," he confirmed. "And you are Della's brother Carter."

"I am," the man confirmed as well. "We didn't expect you would accompany Della." Unspoken disapproval cloaked his words. "This is a private matter."

"If it weren't for Perry," Della spoke up, "I wouldn't be here, Carter."

Carter Street bowed slightly. "Then I will be more gracious toward your guest. Thank you, Mr. Mason, for bringing my sister home."

Perry felt Della stiffen at the word 'home' and her grip on his hand increased. He hadn't realized what phenomenal strength she had until today. She could very easily crush every bone in his hand. "I'm sorry that our first meeting had to be under such sad circumstances."

Jameson Street slipped behind Perry and Della to stand next to his son. "My mother would expect no sorrow at her passing," he said, staring expressionlessly down at the woman in the bed.

Perry shot a glance at Della in case she attempted to respond to her father's comment. She raised innocent eyes to his, refusing to look at her grandmother. "You still have my sympathy," Perry insisted, relieved that Della let her father's remark pass.

Jameson Street didn't look up. "We will mourn her, of course. But she would not have tolerated emotional expressions of grief. Death is an inevitable part of life. Her age was advanced and she remained in complete control of her faculties. That's more than most of us will realize in life."

Della let her eyes wander to the white-haired woman on the bed, then quickly shifted them to her brother. "What happened?"

Carter Street shrugged. "We're not sure. Henny found her unconscious on the stair landing. The doctors don't know if she had a stroke and then fell, or if she fell and then had a stroke."

"She's had a stroke," Della repeated dully. Then she put one hand on her hip and cocked her head to the left. "Who the hell is _**Henny**_?"

Carter blinked rapidly. "Henny is…an assistant. When you abandoned your duties and ran back to Los Angeles we had to do something. Father and I entertain a lot and it was becoming too much for Grandmother to manage by herself. Henny handles administrative duties at the mill and acts as hostess for business gatherings."

"Hostess? So Henny is a woman?"

A subtle but distinct blush crept across Carter Street's cheeks. "Henrietta," he offered.

"Well I'm glad you hired someone to help Grandmother, since I left you in such a lurch," Della responded acidly. "It's not as if I'm a grown woman with a mind of my own and a right to live my life as I see fit."

Perry fought back a smile, relieved that Della's feisty personality had re-emerged. Gone was the unsure woman who had tentatively stepped from the plane, clinging to him for all she was worth. The past few minutes in the company of her father and brother had given him some insight into why she closed off this aspect of her life: they were clearly insufferable.

"We shouldn't have been forced to bring an outsider into our home at all, but it was necessary for business purposes," Carter responded.

"I didn't feel it when the earth stopped spinning." She turned to Perry. "Did you notice a difference? Did I miss the end of the world as we know it because I was selfishly living a very happy life in L.A.?"

Perry opened his mouth to speak but a motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He nudged Della. "Look," he whispered, nodding toward the elderly woman lying on the bed.

Katherine Street was staring unblinkingly at her granddaughter, light grey-blue eyes wide open. Then she heaved one huge, rasping snort of a breath and closed them once again.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"God," Della said with a shudder, "I don't think I'll ever forget that look she gave me. She always had to have the last word. It's like she waited for me to get there and then let me have it."

Perry took his hand from the wheel and placed it over hers. "Della, it couldn't have been anything but a reflex of some sort. The doctors said the stroke had destroyed her brain."

Della shuddered again. "The doctors had to be wrong about a stroke. She only pretended to be in a coma."

Perry gave an exasperated sigh. "Della, don't be ridiculous. How do you explain that she died seconds after opening her eyes?"

"She wanted me to feel guilty," Della replied immediately. "She belittled and criticized me every minute of every day for my entire life. She tried to break me and make me into the docile, mindless granddaughter she thought I should be. This was her supreme achievement, and I'll bet she planned it for years. I'll have the image of her staring at me burned into my brain forever. Good-bye to sleep," she finished bitterly.

Perry executed a left-hand turn as he followed Jameson Street's big Buick through the streets of Della's home town. Maybe if he let her talk and get it out of her system she would eventually realize the absurdity of her words because nothing he had said since her grandmother had taken her last breath seemed to penetrate her thinking as she spewed one ludicrous statement after another. She had seemed sullen and shell-shocked as the resident physician called the official time of death, and had remained silent during the couple of hours it took to complete paperwork and make the family's wishes in regard to Katherine Street's remains perfectly clear.

Della had gone quiet, hunched against the door, arms crossed over her chest. She had rolled down the window and puffs of hot, humid air were causing curls to tighten and flatten around her face.

"Are you through?" Perry applied the brakes a full car length behind the Buick at a stop sign.

She hunched further down in the seat. "For now," she answered sullenly. "Feel free to yell at me."

"Have I ever yelled at you?" He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to reply. "I mean when your physical safety wasn't immediately in peril?" He wanted to touch her, but she obviously didn't want him to. "All those doctors couldn't have been wrong, Della. What happened was a reflex, a fluke. Your grandmother had no idea you were there. She couldn't possibly have purposely opened her eyes and looked at you."

"Then why in heaven's name did you insist we come out here so I could say good-bye to her?" Her voice was shaking with fury. "If she had no idea I was there or not, what was the big deal? I've never been so mad at you."

"Maybe you aren't the person I thought you were," he said quietly, agreeing with her earlier statement that he thought too much of her. The Buick in front of him turned onto Morrell, a smoothly paved street lined with old trees and well-kept Victorian houses. He followed several feet behind the creeping Buick, the slow pace allowing him plenty of time to admire the beautiful architecture and meticulously manicured lawns bathed in bright moonlight in an effort to keep his temper at bay and remember the circumstances.

Tears sprang to Della's eyes. "Maybe I'm not," she said in a strangled whisper. "You just don't realize what it was like growing up with her."

Perry stared straight ahead, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, thoughts morbid with regret that he had shoved aside her teary protests about coming here and bundled her onto Byron's plane. Just because he had regrets in his life didn't mean Della would or should share the same regrets. He had adored his mother, and she had loved him unconditionally. His childhood, although fatherless from a young age and presided over by a bossy brother, had been idyllic compared to the picture Della alluded to of her childhood. He recognized that his regret over not being able to say good-bye to Lyla and tell her everything he had ever wanted to say to her shouldn't have taken precedence over Della's feelings. "I would have if you had ever trusted me enough to talk about it."

His words felt like a slap across her face and a small gasp escaped her lips. She buried her face in her hands as huge, silent sobs wracked her slender body.

Perry disliked himself at that moment. Disliked that he had forced her to fly across the United States to a place she loathed, disliked that her father and brother were cold and blatantly disapproving of her, disliked that he had made her cry. They argued, Lord knew they argued, but this was different. The emotions fueling her words were so far above his understanding that he felt as if he was drowning. But it was the disappointment he felt in her that tortured him, that made him say such hurtful things to her. He had never experienced disappointment like this. It seared his soul and seized his heart. Her tears, something that would normally have cut his knees out from under him, didn't affect him in the least.

The brake lights of the Buick claimed his attention as the big car turned into a curving, inclined driveway. At the top of the driveway stood an enormous dark grey Victorian home with a wrap-around porch and dozens of tall windows. Several outbuildings painted to match the house dotted the nearby property. He counted six garage doors on one building as he followed Jameson Street's automobile around the circular drive and brought the sluggish Ford Galaxie to a halt at the base of sweeping porch steps.

Perry turned to Della with an expression of surprise. "Your horrible childhood wasn't the only thing you've kept from me," he commented. "I thought your family lost all their money in the stock market crash."

Della wiped her face with both hands and looked up miserably at him. "They did."

"This is hardly a house of destitution, Della. I'd say you grew up quite comfortable."

The chill in his voice brought on a fresh round of tears. "My family owned it outright, as well as several properties in town at the time of the crash. They sold off most of the property to stay afloat during the Depression but kept the house." She opened the car door, her head lowered, refusing to look at him. "I was never comfortable here."

Perry closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "You said you had to go to work."

"I couldn't stay here and be a slave to my family. When I moved to California I had to work."

Perry shook his head as he flung open the driver's door. "You said you had to work because your family had lost all their money. It's more than apparent your family still has money."

Della slid from the car just as Perry appeared to assist her. Her hand trembled as she placed it in his. "No, I said in separate conversations that my family had lost money in the crash and that I had to work."

Perry Mason was a man who rarely made assumptions and it irked him to no end that Della had allowed him to nurture this view of her personal history. He stared at her, her hand held firmly in his. "Have we been introduced?"

Della opened her mouth, but it was her brother who spoke. "Well, come on," Carter called from the porch. "We have things to attend to."

Perry let go of Della's hand as if it had burned him but continued to hold her gaze. "We certainly do," he agreed.

* * *

A woman opened the door. Blonde, blue-eyed and nicely proportioned, she watched with unguarded surprise and curiosity as Della and Perry mounted the stairs and walked across the smooth boards of the porch. Her nose was small, as was her mouth, her eyes set closely together beneath thin penciled eyebrows, cheeks and forehead broad but lacking definition. It wasn't an unattractive face; it was merely flat and forgettable.

Her figure was another matter. It curved exactly where a woman should curve and beautifully filled out the simple A-line skirt and button down short-sleeved blouse she wore, the outfit transported to classic by perfect hourglass proportions. Della self-consciously adjusted her rumpled cotton traveling suit and automatically sought Perry's hand. But he had halted two steps behind her.

"Ah, Henny," Jameson Street said warmly.

Della threw an astonished look toward her father that Perry did not miss. He too noticed the older man's tone of voice and an immediate outrage gripped him. Not since arriving had he heard Della's father speak to his daughter with such apparent warmth. He took a step forward and hooked his index finger around Della's. As much as she had disappointed him and he had hurt her, she needed a friend. Hadn't she said so?

"I'm sorry about your mother, Mr. Street," the woman said. Her voice was extraordinarily feminine, a soft soprano trill that rivaled birdsong. "She was a great woman."

"She was indeed," Jameson Street agreed without mentioning that his mother would not have abided sorrow at her passing.

The woman held out her hand toward Carter. "Grandmother Katherine was very proud of you, Carter."

Carter eagerly took the woman's hand, which did not get by Della or Perry either. "Thank you, Henny. I admired her greatly."

The woman shifted pale blue eyes to Della and Perry. "And you must be Della," she surmised. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, despite the current circumstances. Grandmother Katherine spoke of you often. I feel as if I know you already." She extended her hand to Della as her nearly colorless eyes openly scrutinized her.

Della dazedly took the woman's hand. "I'm – I'm pleased to meet you too…Henny."

Jameson Street cleared his throat. "The gentleman with my daughter is her employer Perry Mason. Mr. Mason, may I introduce Miss Henrietta Vander Velde."

The woman's tinkling laughter floated into the evening air like wind chimes stirred by a soft breeze. "Henny will do," she said. "I've heard of you and your exploits, Mr. Mason. This is such a small town and when a former citizen escapes and makes good, word gets around." She stepped aside to allow everyone entry into the house.

Perry had to push-start Della as astonishment had frozen her feet to the floor. She stumbled a bit across the threshold and Henny placed a steadying hand on her arm.

"Careful, Della," she cautioned, then winked. "These three-inch heels men like us to wear can be treacherous, can't they?"

Perry stood in the entrance hall, amazed by its stately grandeur. A very old, very valuable crystal chandelier hung above an exquisite starburst inlaid Baker table upon which a tall cut glass vase containing an explosion of gladiola rested. Mahogany paneling, crown molding and formal flocked wallpaper in pale gold spoke of the true wealth the Street family enjoyed. He felt Della's fingers tangle with his. He looked down into miserable, moist eyes and the heaviness in his heart lifted measurably.

"I'm glad you're here," Henny lowered her voice as she closed the front door and leaned back against it. "An unexpected guest arrived about an hour ago. I tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn't put me through."

Jameson Street raised one eyebrow and Perry recognized something his daughter had inherited from him. "A guest? We haven't released the news of Mother's death yet. Who is it?"

Della's nails dug into Perry's hand. He glanced down at her again and followed the riveted gaze of her huge eyes to the smartly dressed woman who stood in the entryway to the formal living room.

"Hello Jameson," the woman said in low, quiet voice.

Jameson Street paled visibly as he placed a steadying hand on the table. "Evie," he breathed.


	7. Chapter 7

_NOTE: So this is getting downright hysterical: FanFiction's system continues to delete the name 'Maeve' when typed all in capital letters! I again apologize for the lack of impact Chapter 3 packed and then again for my apology posted with chapter 4. Sheesh. _

_Several of you dear readers have asked when will the story be finished/when will more chapters be posted. I'm thrilled to report that the story is largely finished. My intent is to post a section of chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, as I'm able to edit. This is my most ambitious story to date, and I've learned that I'm utterly unable to complete a story in under 20 chapters. Even 30._

_Thank you, thank you to all who are reading and commenting. Every word is appreciated more than you will ever know. ~ D_

* * *

Chapter 7

Following a few moments of awkward greetings and Jameson Street's considerable surprise that Perry and Della had already met her mother, everyone moved into the parlor. Eve Wyman settled herself comfortably on a large deep red velvet sofa next to Henny Vander Velde, seemingly oblivious to the deafening silence of the others. Carter Street remained standing near the doorway, Jameson Street dropped heavily into a stretcher base wing arm chair covered in the same red velvet as the couch, and Della seated herself on the piano bench, her back to the monstrous, ornately carved Victorian instrument. After a moment of consideration, Perry crossed the room and joined her on the bench. She stiffened slightly, and refused to look at him. He felt a pang of regret that she remained uncomfortable with his nearness, a regret that devolved into annoyance when she shifted her body away from him further.

"My goodness, Carter," Eve Wyman said brightly. "I hardly recognized you. You were just a scrawny little boy when I left."

"I was almost fourteen," Carter disagreed irritably. "Hardly a little boy."

"What a surprise to see you again, Mrs. Wyman," Perry announced. "You made good time getting here." While he hadn't explicitly requested that Paul Drake shadow Eve Wyman, following their conversation that morning he fully expected the detective to do so. Her appearance at this specific time added to the suspicion in which he already held her. And he couldn't wait to hear Paul's explanation.

"What are you doing here, Evie?" Jameson Street demanded.

Eve Wyman faced her former husband. "I heard about Katherine," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm sorry, Jameson."

"How did you hear about Grandmother?" It was Carter now who demanded an answer.

Eve recoiled slightly, her outstretched hand beginning to shake. "I still have friends in town," she said defensively. "One of them called me late last night."

"And who would that be?" Jameson demanded. "Your father is gone, Mae is in California…oh my God, was it _**her**_?"

Eve dropped her hand to her lap and raised defiant eyes to his. "Yes, it was _**her**_. She is, after all, my stepmother – the only mother I ever knew."

"You mean to say you kept in touch with your stepmother but couldn't be bothered to communicate with your husband or daughter all these years? What does Bitty want? What do _**you**_ want, Evie?"

"I don't want anything, Jameson. Bitty called and since I had business in Chicago anyway, I took a detour to deliver my condolences in person. I had hoped maybe you would accept them in the manner in which they are offered."

Della had been frowning during the conversation between her parents and her expression suddenly cleared. "Grandma Bitty? You still talk to her…" her voice trailed off into silence, a little frown forming between her eyes.

Jameson Street sat forward in the wing chair and grabbed for his ex-wife's arm. "I think you should leave now."

"I second that," Carter jumped into the fray.

"Here, here," Della chimed in.

Eve Wyman struggled against wiry fingers that dug into her arm. "You're hurting me, Jameson."

Perry rose from the piano bench and crossed the room to place his hand on the older man's arm. "I'm suspicious of her presence here, too, Mr. Street, but I don't think manhandling her will get us anywhere."

"Why Perry, what have I done to make you suspicious of me?" She widened her eyes and swept long, artificial lashes upward innocently.

"I have a whole list in my purse," Della spoke up. "Perry dictated it on the plane."

Perry nearly choked on a guffaw. Jameson Street let go of Eve Wyman's arm abruptly.

"All this hostility," Eve Wyman began tremulously, "and I haven't done anything to deserve it."

Perry returned to the piano bench and purposely sat close to Della. If she was so inclined to move away from him again she would fall off the bench. "You must admit your appearance first in Los Angeles and now here at this particular time is a startling coincidence. When exactly did you say your stepmother called?"

Eve Wyman allowed a tear to travel down her cheek before flicking it away with a finger. "You know I arrived in Los Angeles after seeing your picture with Della in the newspaper two days ago," she explained in a hurt voice. "Bitty called late last night and told me about Katherine."

"Was that the first time your stepmother called? And how did she know where to call you?"

"Really Perry, must I be cross-examined?"

"I'm merely trying to get at your motives, Mrs. Wyman. Last night your appearance was a great surprise. Tonight your appearance is more than a little suspicious, especially since you must have chartered a flight out of Los Angeles. No commercial flight could have gotten you here so quickly."

"So what if I chartered a flight?" Eve Wyman demanded. "I told you I had business in Chicago…"

"You didn't mention any business in Chicago last night at dinner," Perry pointed out.

"It – it just c-came up," Della's mother stammered slightly. She adjusted the jacket of her beige suit in a transparent delay tactic. "I'm quite offended by the reception I've been given when all I wanted was to console my ex-husband in the passing of his mother."

"What kind of reception did you expect for God's sake, Evie? A marching band or a ticker tape parade?" Jameson Street jumped to his feet and joined his son in the doorway, his back to the room. "You abandoned me and your daughter without an explanation, without saying good-bye…and you never sent so much as a post card in all these years."

Eve Wyman buried her face in her hands and let out a sob. "I know what I did! And you know what you did. I had to leave…you of all people should understand why I left, and – and what it was like living here."

Della stared hard at her mother. She did. She understood perfectly how it was living here.

"I most certainly do know what it was like," Jameson Street countered. "There was no alternative."

"I came back once."

Jameson Street turned slowly to face his former wife. "You came back?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes. I remember it was raining and I stood outside, looking into the parlor. You were holding a little boy, and had your arm around a blonde woman. Della must have been about seven and was playing the piano. Everyone was smiling and having a lovely time. You had forgotten about me, married again, and had another baby. You were a real family. Bitty told me, but I had to see for myself. And Della," she removed her hands to look imploringly at her daughter, "you were so pretty and looked so happy. I realized you were better off without me, so I left."

Della faced her mother with a scornful expression. "I've seen the movie _Stella Dallas_, Mrs. Wyman" she said icily. "I cried during the scene where she stands in the rain watching her daughter through the window. You never came back. You never saw anything like what you describe, because _nothing like that ever took place in this house_." She stood quickly and looked down at Perry, weaving slightly. "I'd like to leave now."

Eve Wyman hid behind her hands again. Muffled sobs could be heard as she couldn't or wouldn't challenge what her daughter had said.

Perry stood and took Della's elbow to steady her. "I think Della and I have had enough for one day. If you'll excuse us, we'll be going now."

"Just where do you think you're going? Della is staying right here, in her room." Jameson Street crossed his arms over his chest and blocked the doorway. "My daughter will not go to a motel with a man."

"Your daughter will go wherever and with whomever she darn well wants to," Della said with clipped, precise diction, her posture unyielding.

Henny Vander Velde, who had been silent up to that point, stood and smoothed down her skirt. "It's late, Della," she said soothingly. "It makes sense for you to stay here. You'll need to be here early to begin receiving condolence calls."

Perry could tell that Della was perilously close to tears again, the events of the past couple of days threatening to overwhelm her, not to mention the tiring flight and the multitude of surprises that had awaited her arrival. She needed food and plenty of sleep, and she needed both soon.

"Henny is right," Carter spoke up. "We have funeral arrangements to make and the wake to plan. I agree with Father. Della stays here. Mr. Mason can go on to the motel."

"No!" Della nearly shouted, beginning to lose her grip on civility. "If he goes, I go."

"The only thing worse than allowing you to stay at a motel with a man is allowing that man to sleep under the same roof as your family," Jameson Street stated harshly. "Your grandmother wouldn't have stood for it in this house, and neither will I."

"Jameson," Henny said cajolingly, "you have seven bedrooms in this house. Mr. Mason appears to be an upstanding, rational man. He can stay in the blue room. It's the furthest from Della's bedroom."

"What about me?" Eve Wyman asked in a small voice.

"What about you?" Jameson Street shot back, not bothering to look at her.

"Are you going to throw me out? You'll let a strange man stay but you'll toss your wife out into the night? Must I stay in a hotel?"

Jameson exchanged glances with Carter, who shook his head slightly. He closed his eyes wearily as he fought with making a decision. "You can stay tonight. But tomorrow I expect you to find other accommodations. Since you're still so close to Bitty perhaps you can stay with her."

"Thank you, Jameson. I appreciate your hospitality," Eve Wyman said meekly with only a hint of sarcasm.

"Carter, you and Mr. Mason gather the luggage and take it to everyone's respective bedrooms. Henny, is there anything in the house to eat? None of us has had dinner."

Henny smiled approvingly at Jameson Street. "As a matter of fact, I ordered sandwiches and salads from _Judy's_. It will only take a few minutes to get everything laid out."

"I'll help you," Eve Wyman offered, getting to her feet. All trace of tears had disappeared and she was smiling and composed.

"I appreciate your offer, Mrs. Wyman, but I can manage," Henny said graciously.

"Nonsense." Eve glided past the younger woman. "It's the least I can do."

Della took one step to follow the other two women, but Perry pulled her back gently. "Why don't you sit down, Della. You look pale."

Della sank back down to the piano bench without protest and looked up at him gratefully. "I think I will," she said with a shaky little laugh. "I'm feeling a bit woozy."

Perry placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "You need something to eat. I'll run the luggage upstairs and be right back. We'll have a sandwich, and then you, young lady, are going to bed."

"Notice I'm not arguing."

Perry smiled. "Good girl."

* * *

When he returned from carting their luggage from the car to the upstairs bedrooms Carter indicated, Perry found Della still on the piano bench, facing the piano, head down, idly plunking the keys. He lowered himself next to her.

"This is the biggest, ugliest piano I've ever seen," he declared, searching for a subject that he hoped wouldn't be fodder for an argument.

Della didn't look up. "So far you don't like very much about my home or my home town."

"I was under the impression that you don't either."

Her fingers continued to play a familiar musical phrase over and over. "I hate this piano."

"Hate is a rather strong word for this poor, sad, ugly piano." He flexed the fingers on his right hand and tapped a key.

"Lessons twice a week, two hours of practice a day, endless recitals in uncomfortable starched organdy dresses and Mary Jane's that gave me blisters…and the music! The music was mostly awful."

Perry now had both hands on the keyboard and was effortlessly playing the base line to her treble. Della wiggled her hips and scooted closer to the piano. Soon all four of their hands were moving across the keys, Perry keeping a steady rhythm while Della expertly played the melody line of the popular duet, improvising runs and variations, spurring him to pick up the pace. The piano was slightly out of tune but neither of them cared as smiles hatched into full blown grins and their hands flew over the keyboard.

Della began to giggle, her fingers working the melody for all it was worth, her eyes shining. Perry was astonished by her talent, by how she countered every move he made easily and immediately. Finally he could no longer keep up with her ever-increasingly complicated melody and his fingers became tangled together in a crash of discordant keys.

Della leaned against him, collapsing with girlish giggles. Perry circled her shoulders with his arm and hugged her to him.

"That little kiss you stole held all my heart and soul," Della quoted the song's lyric, suddenly serious.

"You had my heart and soul long before I ever kissed you."

She touched his cheek gently with her fingertips. "I didn't know you played the piano."

"Right back at you, kid. But I don't play the piano per se. I only play the base line of _Heart and Soul_. Are you going to tell me why you hate this piano yet you play it so wonderfully?" His sister-in-law Valerie taught piano and she couldn't play _Heart and Soul_ as well as Della. It was Val who had taught him the base line years ago.

"Proper young ladies play the piano. I took lessons for ten years."

Perry turned and took her face in his hands. "Della, why have you never mentioned you play the piano in all the years we've known each other? Especially after you met Valerie and found out she teaches piano? Is it so difficult for you to talk to me?"

"I don't talk about it because…because I don't want to. I didn't want to play the piano. And I certainly didn't want to play the kind of music Grandmother selected. If I had to play the piano I wanted to play Porter and Gershwin and Richard Rodgers, but instead I had to learn Scarlatti, Dvorak and Wagner." She shuddered. "Do you remember what you did the summer you were twelve?"

Perry shrugged. "I suppose I played baseball, rode my bike, went fishing with Harvey."

She pulled away from him and turned back to the piano. "This is what I did when I was twelve." Her fingers gently roamed over the keys and Perry quickly recognized the adagio of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata, one of his mother's favorite pieces of music. Della played from memory, eyes closed, never missing a note Perry could detect, her fingering confident and sure, and he sat silently in awe of her skill. As the last note faded, she withdrew her hands from the piano and placed them in her lap.

"I spent my entire summer inside this house, sitting at this piano," she said, her voice cracking, "learning that. I haven't touched a piano since I was nineteen years old and I played it perfectly. Do you know why?" She didn't wait for him to respond but rushed on. "Because I made a mistake in the spring recital, that's why. I missed two notes in Chopin's Nocturne in E Flat Major and I wasn't allowed to attend my best friend's thirteenth birthday party, couldn't see my little brother for days on end, and couldn't spend time with my friends until the Pathetique was perfect. I simply couldn't embarrass my grandmother at the fall recital."

"Della – "

She shook her head. "Don't say anything, Perry. I don't want to talk about the piano. And I don't ever want to play again. It isn't fun. She didn't allow it to be fun. She didn't allow _**anything**_ to be fun. I wanted to tap dance, but she said ballet was more suitable for a lady and proceeded to drag me to Miss Roseanne's ballet studio three times a week where I danced to much of the same music she forced me to play on the piano."

"I thought _Heart and Soul_ was fun."

She leaned back against him once again. "It was fun," she admitted. "But it was our first and last performance."

"It really is a shame you don't play. You are very good."

"I'm no Donna Loring. I have the mechanics, but I don't have the heart. I don't enjoy it, and it comes through in my playing. Can we not talk about it anymore?"

His arms slid around her waist and held her close. "I'm not a musical expert and I am admittedly prejudiced, but I think you play beautifully. Maybe you should think about –"

She tore his arms from around her waist and flung herself off the piano bench. "I'm through playing and I'm definitely through talking about it. If you're going to obsess about my piano playing maybe you _**should **_go to the motel by yourself."

Perry slowly stood and stretched to his full height. "Go eat something," he told her in a tightly controlled voice. "I'm going to call Paul Drake and find out how the hell your mother got here so quickly and why our esteemed colleague didn't call to warn us. I suspect may she have known about your grandmother before we did."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Perry dialed the number of the Drake Detective Agency and reversed the charges. He was surprised moments later when a male voice answered.

"What are you doing answering the phone, Faulkner?"

Paul Drake's crack senior operative snorted. "Ruth said she had a quick errand to run. That was two hours ago."

"Where's Paul?"

Faulkner snorted again. "Have no idea. Licking his wounds somewhere."

"How's that?"

"Let's just say that wherever he is, he's crapping little red jelly beans right about now."

"And why would he be so afflicted?" Perry fought to keep amusement from his voice, knowing full well why.

"Because Mrs. Wyman pulled a walk-out powder on him that the greenest operative would have seen right through."

Perry rubbed his jaw. "Ladies room? Out the window?"

"Bingo," Faulkner said gleefully. "I tell you, Mr. Mason, if I didn't like my job so much, I would be laughing _**so**_ _**hard**_."

Perry did laugh. "So Paul's been covering every plane, train, bus, and rental car that left L.A. since she gave him the slip."

"I imagine so. When they climb out a window they're usually smart enough not to travel under their own name. Even if she used one of her previous married names and not a wholly fictitious name she'll be difficult to locate."

"Well, next time he calls in, you can tell Paul that Mrs. Wyman is here."

"She's _**there**_? Wherever there is," he added casually.

Perry laughed again. "If you didn't know where I was, Faulkner, I wouldn't pay your employer's ridiculously inflated fees. Tell you what: have a little fun and let Paul stew as long as you can before telling him where she is."

Perry could literally hear Faulkner's huge grin over the telephone wire. "Oh, I'm having a ball with this, Mr. Mason. This makes my week. Hell, this makes my whole _**year**_."

"You may as well tell me what you've found out about the slippery Mrs. Wyman."

Faulkner hesitated. "Just how blunt would you like me to be?"

"As blunt as necessary."

"You know I have the utmost respect for Miss Street –"

"Faulkner," Perry Mason interrupted, "I assure you that Miss Street wants to know the truth about her mother as much as I do. Fire away."

"The woman is a menace," Faulkner blurted. "Not only has she been married three times, so far we've located three ex-fiancés and a string of former boyfriends as well."

"Maybe I should introduce her to Harvey," Perry mused, referring to his oft-married and oft-engaged friend.

"How's that?"

"Nothing. I was making a bad personal joke."

"I've spoken with two of the ex-husbands, all three of the ex-fiancés and two former boyfriends, and not one of them had a bad word to say about her. She took all of them for considerable sums of money, but to a man they just wanted to know that she was okay. The only ex-husband I haven't been able to speak with is Miss Street's father. He's been understandably unavailable."

"I'll take it from here with Miss Street's father, Faulkner. Mrs. Wyman was waiting for us at the house when we arrived from the hospital. Initially Mr. Street was shocked and angry to see his ex-wife, but she put on quite a little show and the outcome of it was her luggage is now in one of the guest bedrooms."

"She uses people, Mr. Mason," Faulkner warned. "She gets a guy to feel all protective about her, has a few sessions with a psychiatrist, fakes a breakdown that requires a week or two in a hospital, and then takes what she can get and disappears. She's broken up marriages, alienated children from their fathers, and left the men bleeding from the heart, but they still want to protect her."

"Some men like a helpless woman," Perry remarked, all his senses on alert about Mrs. Wyman's hospital stays. "It makes them seem all that more masculine."

"It makes them seem foolish," Faulkner said in disgust. "She's spent quite a little bit of time in booby hatches around the country, including the one just down the road from you right before she disappeared. Tell me, Mr. Mason, would you be some unbalanced woman's fourth husband or fiancé? "

"Probably not," Perry admitted. "But I might have a bit more self-esteem than the men Eve Wyman generally targets." He rubbed his forehead. How could he ever tell Della her mother was a nut case?

"The poor saps," Faulkner said bitterly. "They never knew what hit them. We can't get our hands on her psychological records, but we did locate a talkative former nurse of one deceased psychologist who remembered her well. She described her as a _hystrionic_, a borderline narcissist, depressive, manipulative, emotionally stunted, and prone to destructive behavior. She's incapable of any deep feelings aside from those she has for herself."

"Did the men you talked to know about her psychological history?"

"Yes, and to my thinking that makes them even bigger saps. I'll have my initial report ready for you in the morning. In the meantime, I'd caution you to watch out for her, Mr. Mason. That woman is up to something. Don't you think it's odd she showed up there at this particular time?"

Perry rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "It does seem a tad too coincidental that she decides to reintroduce herself into Della's life just as the family matriarch is on her deathbed." He wondered how deeply this Bitty character was involved with Eve Wyman's reappearance. He remembered Della's expression and made a mental note to ask her about her step-grandmother.

"You do know Miss Street's family is quite wealthy."

"Yes, I do." Faulkner didn't need to know that he had only discovered this fact an hour ago. "Does Mrs. Wyman need money?"

"Put it this way: she's never worked a day in her life due to her um…_**illness**_, and even though her ex-husbands have been very generous in their settlements, and she's taken money from any man who offers, it takes a lot to live the way Mrs. Wyman lives."

"She's broke?"

"According to prospective husband number four, Elliott Nowak, she's destitute. He's been paying her bills for several months now. He's beside himself worrying about her. Sap."

"Well, maybe you could cut the sap a break and tell him where his wandering fiancée is."

"I wouldn't dream of doing that. Cutting him a break would be to play dumb about her whereabouts. He's better off without her."

"Keep on the phones, Faulkner," he instructed the operative. "I'll call tomorrow morning for your report. Break the news gently to Paul."

"I'll be gentle as a machine gun," Faulkner promised.

* * *

Perry cradled the receiver, took two steps, then turned and snatched up the receiver again. He dialed another California telephone number, this time without reversing the charges. Let Jameson Street pay for this call.

Mae Kirby answered after several rings and Perry very nearly hung up at hearing her voice over the wire, but Della's aunt needed to know about Katherine Street, and he needed to know a few things himself. "Mae, Perry Mason."

"Perry! Is anything wrong? Is Della all right?"

"I don't know, Mae, you tell me. Her grandmother died earlier this evening." When Mae met his announcement with silence, he continued. "But you already knew that, didn't you, because your stepmother called you."

Mae hesitated before answering. "Yes, Bitty called earlier. How did you know that?"

Perry ignored her question. "How did Bitty know about Mrs. Street?"

"My stepbrother is an orderly at the hospital and was working on the floor when Katherine passed away."

"What else do you know, Mae?"

"I'll tell you what I know," Mae parroted indignantly. "I know you and Della flew out of L.A. this morning without telling me."

"And did you know your sister flew out as well?"

Perry thought her gasp of surprise was well executed. "Evie is there with you? She's met Della?"

"She showed up at Della's apartment last night. She claimed she saw a picture of Della with me in the newspaper and suddenly after all these years wanted to meet her. Carter called this morning about Mrs. Street, so I manhandled Della onto a plane and we flew out here. Imagine our surprise when we discovered Eve waiting for us at the house. What's going on, Mae? Why would your sister reappear now?"

Mae hesitated just long enough and answered with just a bit too much innocence for Perry to believe her. "I'm sure I don't know, Perry. I haven't spoken with my sister since two days before she disappeared over twenty-five years ago. Why didn't you call last night?"

"Mae," Perry's voice hardened, "we've established the fact that Bitty Sherwood has maintained contact with both you and your sister over the years. She must have told you things about her."

"No!" Mae denied sharply. "I didn't want to hear anything about Evie, not after she…not after she abandoned Della. Bitty would try to tell me about her, but I wouldn't listen. I daresay you know more about my sister than I, presuming of course that you've had Paul Drake investigating her and he's uncovered Evie's troubled past. It was best for Della that I didn't keep in contact with Evie."

"It was best for Maeve, you mean."

"Oh, that silly name," Mae replied in disgust, and Perry could imagine her eyes rolling. "Evie thought she was so clever to recognize Mae and Eve combined into the name Maeve, and so proud to triumph over Katherine. In all honesty, I don't know how Evie lasted as long as she did before completely breaking down. There was always something a bit off about her."

"We're going to talk more, Mae," Perry said hurriedly as raised voices from the kitchen reached his ears. He wished he could explore Mae's comment about her sister's breakdown in reference to what Faulkner had told him, but he feared Della might need him. "Think very carefully about what you're going to say to your niece, Mae, because I suspect you and the cast of characters I met today haven't been very honest with her."

"I did what I thought was best for her," Mae repeated, her voice low and tearful. "You didn't know Katherine or Evie or what it was like living there."

"That's becoming a recurring theme." Perry was quiet for a moment as he listened to Mae try to hide her weeping from him. His day certainly was complete. Making the two women he loved most cry was a grand achievement. "I expected more of you, Mae."

Not very proud of what he had said to Della's aunt, Perry hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

* * *

Whatever the ruckus had been was contained by the time Perry hung up with Mae and made his way to the kitchen, where everyone was seated around the table silently chewing on sandwiches and drinking tall glasses of iced tea. He took the only remaining empty seat and reached toward the food platter for a sandwich. Wordlessly, Henny Vander Velde slid a plate toward him as Della pushed a deli container of macaroni salad across the table without so much as glancing at him.

"Don't let my presence put a damper on the festivities," he said, taking a huge bite from his sandwich, ham on rye with thick slices of Swiss cheese and a generous application of mustard. "Did I miss anything?"

Carter abruptly pushed back his chair and tossed his napkin onto the table. "Henny, I'll see you to your car now. I'm tired. I've been up for almost forty-eight hours."

Henrietta Vander Velde hurriedly drained the last of her iced tea, daintily wiped her small mouth with a napkin, and stood when Carter nearly jerked the chair out from under her. She bade everyone a hasty good night, apologized for not staying to help with putting away the leftovers, and followed Carter from the kitchen.

Jameson Street glanced at the departing couple briefly, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. "I still say Carter should drive Henny home himself," he said reprovingly, which clued Perry in to the raised voices he'd heard. "It's much too late for a young woman to be out driving alone."

"As Henny said, she's quite capable of taking care of herself," Della assured him. "This town practically rolls up the sidewalks at eight o'clock. She probably won't encounter one car on the way home. Would you rather Carter fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a telephone pole?"

"She lives all the way across town."

Della pushed her plate away from her and leaned back in the chair. "On this side of the railroad tracks or the other side?"

Two splotches of color appeared on Jameson Street's cheeks. "She has a very nice little house on Orleans Street."

"On this side of the tracks by the skin of her teeth." Della picked up the sweating glass of tea in front of her and rolled it across her forehead. "I'll bet it's cooler at her house, being so close to the river. I had forgotten how hot it can get here."

"It's actually unusually hot for this time of year," her father commented contrarily.

"It was hot like this the year Della was born. Do you remember, Jameson? You were so worried about her." Eve Wyman sat forward and covered her former husband's hand with her own.

Jameson Street stared dispassionately at her hand clasping his. "Let's not reminisce about that time, Evie," he said heavily. "It can't lead anywhere but to where we are now."

Eve Wyman's smooth forehead puckered. "What a strange thing to say, Jameson."

"On the contrary," Della disagreed. "I understand perfectly what he meant."

Della's mother eyed her with glittering green eyes. "Pretty _**and**_ smart, are you?" she asked archly.

Perry finished his sandwich and reached for another. "The smartest, prettiest woman I've ever known," he said conversationally, choosing not to pursue why no one responded to his earlier question.

Eve Wyman withdrew her hand. "While I admire your loyalty toward your employee, Perry, I was speaking with my husband and my daughter."

"Ex-husband," Jameson Street reminded her.

She waved her hand dismissively. "The point is, despite the fact that Della is involved personally with Perry doesn't give him the right to butt in where he isn't wanted."

Della's eyes were wide with feigned innocence. "I thought I was only his employee. And I thought _**you **_wanted him."

Eve Wyman pushed back her chair and threw her napkin on the table. "I'm not going to sit here and be treated like this."

"Just so you know, Mrs. Wyman," Della called after her, "we'll be discussing you at length behind your back."

"Della Katherine," her father reprimanded.

"Now you're standing up for her?"

Jameson Street dragged himself wearily to his feet. "No, I'm chastising the very unladylike behavior of my daughter."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Della promised.

"Della Katherine," Perry said in mock shock.

Della pinned him with a scathing look. He met her look with an expression of exaggerated innocence.

"Would you mind cleaning up? I'm afraid in my current fatigued condition I'd make a bigger mess than there is already." Jameson Street made a little bow and turned away from the table.

"I've got it," Della grumbled, slumping against the chair back and crossing her arms over her chest, aware that her father was really quite helpless in a kitchen.

Perry turned to Della after her father had exited the room. "Are we having fun yet?"

"I'm not in the mood for you to be a smart aleck right now," she told him.

"Lighten up, will you? You're spoiling the party."

Della began stacking plates and gathering miscellaneous pieces of silverware. "Stop trying to kid me out of a really decent pout. I'd like to savor it a bit longer."

Perry reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case and lighter. "I think someone needs a drink. You're so tight you squeak."

"Don't smoke!" Della commanded.

Perry blinked at her in surprise, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Grandmother doesn't allow anyone to smoke in the house," Della explained.

"And that fact is salient because…?"

Della flushed slightly as she sank back into a chair. "I –I'm sorry. I guess it really hasn't sunk in yet that she's gone. I keep expecting her to walk up behind me and tell me to stand up straight or to change my clothes, or that my hair style is an abomination."

Perry defiantly lit the cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring. "What else would tick her off?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What have you always wanted to do behind your grandmother's back that would drive her up a wall?"

A slow smile softened Della's sour expression. "Play _Heart and Soul_ on the piano."

Perry grinned impishly and blew another smoke ring. "Anything else? I've gotten the impression that the kitchen was her pride and joy." He stubbed the cigarette out on one of the dirty plates, stood, and made his way around the table to where Della sat. He knelt and ran his hand up her leg, stopping just short of plunging beneath her skirt. "What would she think if her granddaughter committed a lewd act on the kitchen table?"

Della laughed and draped her arms around his neck. "She certainly had pride, but I doubt she experienced much joy." She gasped as his hand crept up her inner thigh. "Maybe the counter would be better," she suggested raggedly. "It would accommodate your height and – "

Perry leaned forward and kissed her deeply, possessively, until she was trembling with need. "That's the Della I know," he whispered, his lips leaving hers and traveling across her cheek to nuzzle the silken skin of her slender neck. He stood abruptly and she whimpered. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward. "Sweet dreams, baby," he whispered.

And walked out of the kitchen.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The doorbell began ringing at eight-thirty the following morning as a steady stream of neighbors and mill employees appeared bearing their condolences and more food than an army could hope to eat in a year. Everything from an earthenware bowl filled with freshly gathered multi-colored eggs to a two-pound meatloaf, from platters of fried chicken to plates of freshly baked cookies of every conceivable type, the town in which Katherine Street had been born and died turned out in droves to pay their respects to her family.

Perry tried to ignore the chimes that sounded every five minutes like clockwork, almost as if the comings and goings of the visitors had been carefully timed and choreographed. He finally gave up trying to sleep through the commotion when it was merely five a.m. California time, having managed only three hours of sleep since leaving Della alone in the kitchen to clean up after dinner.

It had been difficult not to shower and crawl into her bed in the room at the top of the stairs that Carter had pointed out as Della's, but because her father and brother were less than pleased with his presence to begin with, he'd decided not to invite controversy. The room assigned to him was not large, but it was remarkably clean. The bed was soft and nearly contained his above-average height and broad physique. An oscillating table fan placed on the dresser across the room moved the heavy, sticky air enough for him to breathe and to dry whatever sweat sheened his body following bouts of restlessness brought on by the sight of Della's haunted eyes whenever he closed his own.

The foyer was crowded with hushed and reverent townsfolk when Perry descended the stairs dressed in a pair of black brushed cotton trousers and a short-sleeved dress shirt open at the neck, a concession to the oppressive heat of the new day. The two large ceiling fans in the entryway were turning on high speed, but still women and men alike fanned flushed, moist skin. All except for Della, who stood amid the throng looking fresh and unaffected by the great warmth, smiling politely, conversing quietly, shaking hands and accepting quick kisses to her cheeks and sympathetic pats to her shoulders.

Henrietta Vander Velde weaved through the crowd, transporting the offerings of food to the kitchen and dining room since the table in the entryway was overflowing with platters and bowls and baskets already. The huge arrangement of gladiola had been moved to stand beside the stairway, making the grand foyer appear even larger. Perry paused on the stair landing to watch Della for a few moments, lovely and composed in the skirt of her traveling suit and the sleeveless silk shell that went with it, both of which had been thoroughly wrinkled only five short hours ago but were now fresh and perfectly pressed. He wondered if she had slept at all, or if she stayed up to clean the kitchen and press her suit, her mind generally preoccupied with everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. He should have checked on her during the night, he thought with chastising regret.

He was just about to resume his descent when she glanced up and caught his eye. Her smile changed from polite to tremulous and pleading and he hastily made his way to her, skipping steps and carefully navigating the milling assemblage of ladies in a rainbow of cotton dresses and pearl necklaces and men in blue _Milliron Corrugated_ work shirts bearing their names in red on white patches sewn above the breast pocket. He reached her just as a woman Della's age and hugely with child approached and took hold of her hand in an earnest handshake.

"It's good to see you, Del," the woman said, her eyes flickering with open curiosity to Perry Mason. "I just wish it wasn't under such sad circumstances." Her flickering curiosity in Perry became a pointed stare.

Della hesitated, wrestling with something in her mind before finally turning toward Perry and surreptitiously taking his hand. "Chief, this is Annette Gibson, a friend from school. Annette is married to Hal Gibson, the youngest ever floor supervisor at the mill." She was also the cousin of Amy, her best friend in high school who had betrayed her in the worst way a woman could. Annette had all but disowned her cousin, staunchly taking Della's side in the sad scandal – nearly the only person who had.

Perry bowed when Annette failed to offer her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gibson. Perry Mason. I'm Della's…"

"Employer," Della interrupted firmly.

"Employer," Perry echoed flatly.

Annette Gibson shifted her eyes from Perry to Della and back to Perry again. "I'm pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Mason," she said, suddenly ill at ease. She patted Della's arm. "I'm sorry about your grandmother, Della. I have to be going now. This baby is a week overdue and I promised Hal I would take it easy. But I wanted your family to know Hal and I will remember your family in our prayers. I'll miss seeing her at church."

The women shook hands one more time before Annette Gibson turned and headed toward the door in the splayed-hip waddle of an uncomfortably overdue pregnant lady. Perry cupped Della's elbow with his hand and eased her away from the food-laden table. "Come with me," he said, pulling her toward the stairs, to where the crowd had not yet advanced.

At the base of the stairs she shrugged off his guiding hand and folded her arms across her body. "It's about time you came downstairs," she grumbled, knowing it was uncalled for.

"Good morning, darling," he said quietly.

The tremulous smile reappeared. "I'm sorry, Perry. I've been up almost all night and this," she waved at the encroaching crowd behind them, "is exhausting. They just keep coming. Will you look at all that food? I hope you're hungry."

"I would have come down earlier, but I didn't think as your _**employer**_ I would be required to."

She unfolded her arms and rubbed her temples. "If you came down here to pick a fight, I really don't have the time or the energy to argue. The funeral director will be here at eleven, Grandmother's attorney is scheduled at one, and Reverend Dekker is expected at three. And I think these food deliveries will continue right up to dinner time."

"Do you want me to stay here with you?"

Della looked surprised. "Of course I do."

"Then let's get something straight, Della. Am I introducing myself as your boss, as your friend, or as your beau while we're here?"

"I'd like you to be my boss," she replied.

"I see," he said in the same flat voice as previously.

"I wasn't finished," she said, picking up on the emotion simmering below his calm exterior. "I'd like to introduce you as my boss, but I'd like to make that introduction while you're holding my hand, just like with Annette."

He touched her face gently. "Let everyone draw their own conclusions, eh? I think I can manage that. "

* * *

Orv Bartel, the funeral director, a tall thin man with an uncanny resemblance to Ichabod Crane, right down to his ability to put away astonishing amounts of food, arrived precisely at eleven and the Street family excused themselves as the parade of mill employees and neighbors continued unabated. Della watched in amazement as the man polished off two sweet buns, half a dozen deviled eggs, two large drumsticks, an apple, and three cookies, all in the space of time it took to plan two visitations on Sunday, a simple funeral service on Monday, a private family gravesite scripture reading, and a wake at the house catered by ladies from the Congregational Church Katherine Street had attended during her lifetime.

The Streets emerged from the study and Carter escorted the director through the crowd to the door, stopping at the table for another cookie on the way. Della sagged against the door jamb momentarily, watching Perry as he graciously handled receiving her family's callers with Henny and swallowed over a lump in her throat. He was the best man she knew, despite what the legal profession and the law enforcement ranks of California thought of him. He bent the law to contain his brilliance, but as long as she'd known him he'd never broken it. Technically, that is. To see him in this atmosphere, so far removed from his gritty world of crime and criminals, legal strategies and slam-bang action melted her heart. She could almost forgive him for literally hog-tying her and bringing her to where she felt incapable of being herself.

Perry spied her leaning in the study doorway and broke away from the conversation he had been having with Francine Shaffer, wife of the mill's plant manager, Gale. Fran had volunteered to help with receiving condolences and Perry gratefully accepted, as hunger gnawed at his stomach and thirst made his voice hoarse.

"That didn't take long." He smiled encouragingly at her, noting dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes that hadn't been there earlier. "Let's go in the kitchen and grab a bite to eat before your grandmother's lawyer arrives."

They were barely two steps into the kitchen when Della flung herself into his arms and pulled his head down to hers for a long, deep kiss. "Good morning," she said, as he leaned his forehead against hers. "And thank you."

"Whatever you need, Della, I'm here."

"I need something to drink," she told him with a shaky little laugh. "I'm drier than the desert you love so much."

Perry released her and headed toward the ice box. "I hid a pitcher of iced tea from everyone. Sit down and I'll poor a glass for you. Take a look around – does anything look good enough to eat?"

Della scanned the kitchen. Every conceivable surface was covered with food. "There is a bowl of fresh eggs, a platter of ham, and an assortment of cheeses. Would you mind making an omelet?"

"There is fresh fruit, too." Perry emerged from the ice box with a sweaty pitcher of iced tea and a cut-glass bowl of melon balls, which he set down in front of her. He poured two glasses of tea, reached into the silverware drawer and extracted two forks. "Here, nibble on the fruit while I make us an omelet to end all omelets."

Della stabbed a sphere of bright green cantaloupe and popped it into her mouth. It was cold and juicy and she sighed in bliss. "The last time an omelet was made in this kitchen over a dozen eggs lost their lives for absolutely nothing."

When Perry gave her a quizzical look she launched into the story of how she had tried to make breakfast when she was home two and a half years ago as he efficiently prepared a six egg omelet in a large cast iron frying pan. Her own efforts preparing omelets had been met with displeasure bordering on hostility. "And the proper cheese to pair with eggs is cheddar. Three slices, thank you very much," she finished.

Perry turned to her from the stove with a comically stricken look. "I just put Swiss cheese in the omelet."

Della chuckled. "And did you add dill to the eggs?"

"Of course. Is there any other way to make an omelet?"

She stood, moved behind him, slid her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his broad back. "Not in my book," she said. "I shudder to think that if Grandmother had gotten her way I might have stayed in this town and never experienced a ham-and-Swiss omelet with dill."

"That certainly would have been a shame," he agreed. "I wish someone had brought mushrooms."

"It's not mushroom season. The Morels are all gone. I guarantee if there were any to be found, I'd be out looking for them."

"I don't know what a Morel is, but by the tone of your voice I'd say that I've been missing something. Is the street this house is on named after mushrooms?"

She shook her head. "Different spelling. This street is named after the first mayor, William Morrell, spelled M-O-R-R-E-L-L. Morel mushrooms are spelled M-O-R-E-L. They must grow in California. I'll find out where and we'll go hunting."

"You have to _**hunt**_ them?"

She nodded and tightened her arms around his waist as he folded the eggs in half. "There is a very strict dress code and highly sophisticated equipment involved. I think you might have clothing appropriate for mushroom hunting, but I doubt you have the equipment."

"Where are the plates?" He turned off the flame beneath the skillet and pulled a plate down from the cabinet Della indicated by pointing. "Just exactly what is this sophisticated equipment?"

"Mesh potato bags," she replied removing her arms from around his waist and retaking her seat at the table. "The dirt falls off the Morels, which makes them easier to clean before cooking."

Perry carefully removed the golden omelet from the pan and placed it on the plate. He set the plate in front of Della, pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. "Where do you find these Morels?"

"In the woods during the spring rains. They like the moist soil around decaying trees, and I've found a lot of them in fallow apple orchards."

"Sounds dangerous. We could get lost in the woods." Perry attacked one end of the omelet with gusto as Della dove into the opposite end.

"We could at that," she agreed between bites.

"It can get cold at night in the spring. What would we do for heat if we got lost on our hunting trip and no one finds us before nightfall?"

"We could use your lighter to make a fire," she suggested, scooting forward on her chair and matching Perry bite for bite. "Not only would it provide warmth, it would act as a signal beacon for the search party."

Perry shook his head and took a long pull on his iced tea. "I'm afraid it fell out of my pocket. No telling exactly where. So not only can I not smoke a cigarette, I can't build a fire."

Della puckered her forehead in thought and sipped her own iced tea. "That does pose a problem. I suppose we'll just have to generate our own heat."

"Resourceful girl. Perhaps we should go mushroom hunting next spring." He pulled the plate away from her and shoveled the last bites of omelet into his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Della grabbed his glass and drained it of tea. "I'll buy a bag of potatoes the minute we get back home."

Perry stood, picked up the plate and placed it in the sink, pausing to gaze out the window. "There is a steady stream of people walking up one side of the driveway and down the other," he reported. "I've never seen anything quite like this."

Della sighed. "I suppose we should get back out there and let everyone else eat before Emmett gets here."

"There are plenty of eggs. I could make more omelets."

"That isn't even vaguely funny. Let them forage for themselves."

He turned and faced her. "I just realized I haven't seen your mother all morning."

Della cringed. "Do you have to call that woman my mother? Henny told me she's 'indisposed' and is lounging in bed with an ice bag on her aching head. By the way, what did Paul have to say about her?"

Perry shrugged. "Paul wasn't there. I spoke with Faulkner and got a preliminary report only. I should call soon for the full report."

"Did Faulkner corroborate what she told us at dinner the other night?"

"Yes and no. Her full name is Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman. She is your mother and she did abandon you. But we pretty much knew that."

"She's been married _**three**_ times?"

"And officially engaged three times."

Della whistled under her breath. "We should fix her up with Harvey."

Perry grinned. "That's what I said." His grin vanished. "Della, she's…she's not well."

"She's ill? Is that why she came to see me?"

"No, it's not that kind of illness. Her illness requires that she see a psychiatrist regularly."

Della stared at him in wide-eyed shock. "She's insane?"

"The accepted terminology nowadays is 'mentally disturbed'. I don't know what her diagnosis is, that's why I need to call Paul." He also had a burning need to razz the detective about letting Mrs. Wyman get the better of him. "What she didn't tell us at dinner is that she's spent a considerable amount of time in mental health institutions. She was in the hospital right before she left here twenty-five years ago. Paul should have specifics for us this morning."

Della clasped her hands on the table in front of her and spent several seconds absorbing Perry's words. "She's right up upstairs. We could ask her. Or Father. Or Aunt Mae." She looked up at him. Her lips were clamped in a thin line, her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes reflecting hurt and betrayal.

Perry pushed himself away from the sink, took hold of Della's upper arms and lifted her to her feet. "We will," he promised. "But I want to hear what Paul and Faulkner have dug up first."

"How could you not have told me this last night?"

"You were in no condition to hear this last night. You're barely in any condition to hear it right now. But you asked so I'm telling you."

"I don't know who I'm angrier with right now, although the best odds in Vegas would be on you."

"Della – "

"You said I wouldn't be alone in this and then you isolate me from my own life – from my own past." She began to squirm in his grasp.

"Della," he began with increasing exasperation, "I'm telling you right now. Why are you so upset about a matter of a few hours?"

"_**Twelve**_ hours, Perry. You've known things about my mother for twelve hours and you didn't think there was any reason to tell me?"

Perry dropped his arms to his side and stepped back from her. "Go out there and greet the good people of this town with your family. I'll clean up the mess I made and then I'll call Paul. We'll talk later."

"I'll still be angry at you later," she told him. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips.

"You aren't alone, Della. Believe me, everything I do is with you in mind."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Just so you know," Paul began the conversation after Margo clicked Perry through, "nothing you can say will get a reaction out of me."

"I think Della would label this _The Case of the Defensive Detective_. What's the matter, pride still smarting?"

"I'll have you know there's nothing wrong with my pride. My pride is just fine, thank you. Couldn't be better."

"Have you been to the doctor?"

The question made Paul pause before answering despite his resolve not to respond to Perry's digs. "Come again?"

"Faulkner described a troubling affliction. I've been worried about you."

"If you're referring to anything involving little red jelly beans, you were given false information."

"Are you telling me you _**allowed**_ Mrs. Wyman to give you the slip?"

"My methods may be unorthodox, but she's there where you can keep an eye on her and get to know her better instead of here where I would be racking up surveillance expenses that Della would argue with me about later."

"Yeah, you stick with that story, Paul. You're afraid of Della. But the question begs: do we want to get to know Eve Wyman better?"

"Not if you ask Faulkner, but he's prejudiced because his nasty ex-wife left him with empty pockets. He's suffering flashbacks and considering organizing a club for Mrs. Wyman's ex-boyfriends and husbands but claims he can't find a meeting hall big enough to accommodate them all."

"What if I ask you?"

Paul paused once again. "I'm with Faulkner," he admitted reluctantly. "I sure as hell wanted to like her Perry, for Della's sake, but she is one screwball dame. She goes through men, money, and psychiatrists like so much water."

"Don't feel bad, Paul. Della likes her even less than you do," Perry assured the detective, "and I'm right there with you both."

"Well, if you've got about seven hours, a pot of coffee, and a fresh pack of cigarettes, I'll take you through everything we've learned so far."

"I have about seven minutes, it's too hot for coffee, and smoking is not allowed in the house. I'm sitting at Della's father's desk but he's locked all the drawers, so I won't have much to add to the report about him aside from personal impressions."

"Anything you can add will be helpful to complete our dossier on him. He's a mysterious chap. All of her subsequent conquests mentioned him in their interviews as the standard by which Mrs. Wyman judges all men. Should I begin at the beginning, the middle, or the end?"

For the next twenty minutes Paul fed Perry information gathered by himself and two of his top operatives from hours of telephone calls to the various cities in which Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman had settled for any length of time. Perry occasionally broke in with additional information or personal observations or to request clarification, but for the most part he scribbled notes on a pad advertising the local funeral home left behind by the director. There was only one piece of blank paper remaining and Paul was still talking when the door opened and Della entered her father's study on tiptoes.

He looked up and smiled and she managed to lift the corners of her mouth briefly. "Can you wrap it up with Paul or move to the phone on the stair landing? Grandmother's lawyer is here a bit early and Father is anxious to begin the meeting."

Perry nodded and shifted his attention back to the phone. "Paul, we're done for now. The room is needed for a meeting with Mrs. Street's attorney…yes, I'll call back later. How about in three hours?...fine…yes, you heard Della…yes, I'll tell her." He slipped the receiver back onto the cradle. "Paul sends his condolences."

"Just as long as he doesn't send any food," she said tiredly, slumping into one of the leather wing chairs facing her father's desk.

"With everything that will take place in the next few days, we'll be grateful for all that food."

"I know," she admitted irritably. "You don't have to lead me to such an obvious conclusion."

"Snap out of it, kid," he said sharply. "I'm your friend."

Della literally sprang out of the chair and crossed to the tall windows that looked out over the circular driveway. "Take me home, Perry," she said in a quiet, broken, pleading voice, her back to him. "No one truly wants me here. The whole point was to get here before she died, and we did. I've spent all morning playacting and nodding my head when people who didn't know her tell me what a great woman she was. It's wearing me out."

"A person can be many things to many people."

"Can you be on my side for one minute? A little more empathy and a little less chastising would be appreciated, _**my friend**_."

Perry remained seated behind Jameson Street's desk, silent and brooding, knowing that no matter what he said Della would pounce on it as an affront. She certainly was in a mood.

"Please take me home," she repeated. "I'm suffocating here."

"I'm not going to let you run away from this, Della. You can get as mad at me as you want, but we're staying. I'll arrange to have Byron fly us home immediately after the funeral, but not a moment sooner."

There was a knock on the door and Carter poked his head into the study. "We're ready to meet with Emmett," he announced, then pushed the door open wider and stared pointedly at Perry. "Father requests that just the family be present."

Perry slowly got to his feet and picked up the pad that contained his notes about Eve Wyman. "If the family has no objection," he said coolly, moving around the desk, "I'll make myself useful elsewhere."

* * *

Della found Perry in the kitchen with Henny, standing a few feet apart at the counter, wrapping what food they could in thick white paper in preparation of placing it in Katherine Street's deep freezer. She stood in the doorway and watched them for a few minutes, eavesdropping on the few innocuous words they said to each other, achingly touched by Perry's willingness to do what had to be done even thought it was far removed from his frame of reference, but perversely unable to let go of her snit.

"Need any help?"

Perry turned and gave her a smile. She felt herself shrink under his genuine affection, unworthy of the feelings he so willingly put on display within the circle of her fractured family. "That was a short meeting."

Della shrugged. "It was really a meeting to schedule the real meeting tomorrow. Grandmother left very specific instructions with Emmett in regard to her will."

"Mr. Mason, why don't you and Della pour tall glasses of tea or lemonade and go sit on the porch," Henny urged. "The sun is off that side of the house and it might be pleasant out there. I can finish wrapping the rest of this in no time."

Perry hesitated. "Are you sure? I haven't seen you take a break all morning."

"I'll take one when I'm done in here," she promised with a tinkling little laugh. "Round two will begin about four o'clock after the first shift at the mill gets out. There won't be as many people dropping by, so we won't be run ragged as we were this morning."

Perry looked to Della. "Tea or lemonade?"

For some reason Perry's solicitude toward Henny aggravated Della's already jangled nerves. Under normal circumstances it would be she who did what had to be done, she who organized and planned, she who was strong and smiling, and her current ineffectual attitude allowed only a terse, one-word reply. "Tea."

Perry knit his brows briefly before turning to the refrigerator and Della wanted to burst into tears as he poured not two, but three glasses of tea, silently handing one to Henny, who gave him a brilliantly pleased smile of thanks. Della managed not to say anything petty or sarcastic, even though such words bubbled up in her. At that moment she was truly ashamed of herself.

"You've trained Mr. Mason well, Della," Henny commented, taking a sip of the tea. "He's very handy in the kitchen. I don't think your father or Carter could manage to fill the tea kettle to boil water."

"I can't take any credit," Della demurred, surprising herself with the prompt pleasantness of her reply and the strength of her voice. "He came completely self-contained."

Henny laughed as Perry hastily ushered Della from the kitchen, up the hallway, through the foyer and out onto the porch. He nodded toward two wicker rocking chairs placed beneath a set of windows outside the parlor. They seated themselves and sipped on the tea for an extended period of silence.

"Feeling better?"

Della set down her empty glass on a glass-topped wicker table before answering. "I won't feel better until we're no longer in this town." She hoped her tone was neutral and matter-of-fact and not as cranky as she felt.

"Two days, and we'll be gone," he told her. "Just two more days. You can do it."

She heaved possibly the biggest sigh ever in the history of sighs. "It's so much worse than I imagined." Her voice cracked on the word 'worse'. "And I have a feeling it will only go downhill the longer we're here."

"In what way?"

"In too many ways to count." She said a mite more tartly than she intended. She sighed again. "Can we call a truce if I say I'm not mad at you anymore for bringing me here?"

"Baby, the only person you're at war with is you. Sure, your father and brother are reserved, and the situation with your mother is odd at best, but everyone else has been nothing but cordial and caring toward you, especially Henny."

"Under different circumstances Henny and I would probably be friends," Della admitted. "Right now the thought of someone or something tying me to this place is terrifying."

"Two days," he said again. "In two days we'll be at the lake with nothing to think about but each other."

Della closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and yawned loudly, which she knew never failed to tickle Perry for some reason. "Two days isn't that long," she conceded. "Then I'll be myself again."

"You need a good night's sleep and to stop worrying. Tell me what the agenda is for the remainder of our stay."

"This afternoon we meet with Reverend Dekker to go over scripture readings and the graveside service and tomorrow at ten Emmett will read Grandmother's will. She left instructions to read it two days following her passing. She had a few quirks, if you haven't gathered that by now."

"That's not so quirky. A lot of will readings take place prior to the funeral service. Be glad that she requested it so we don't have to hang around after the funeral."

Della opened her eyes to look at him with teary tenderness. "You're full of rainbows and sunshine, aren't you?"

"It's so bright where I'm looking I need sunglasses."

"Have you always been this wonderful?" She rocked herself forward and with a fluid grace that took his breath away, exited her rocking chair and slid onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. He circled her waist with both arms and hugged her close.

"No," he confessed seriously, "not always. A certain dark-haired, hazel-eyed beauty captured my heart and I instantly became wonderful."

Della sniffled through a chuckle. "Handsome and modest. That's an irresistible combination in a man."

"I am a teller of truth."

Della snuggled closer to his broad chest and nuzzled his ear. "You are full of it."

"Yes I am," he agreed without hesitation. "Except when it comes to how I feel about you."

Della sighed happily. "If it wasn't so darn hot I would pass out right now and sleep for days."

"Go ahead, take a nap. I'll even tell you a bedtime story Paul wrote."

"I'd almost forgotten about that! See how you distract me? Is that woman crazy?"

"She definitely has crazy tendencies." He shifted her slightly on his lap. "But that word is frowned upon in the realm of modern psychology. Her official diagnosis is a character disorder termed _hystrionic._ Her behavior deviates from prevailing cultural expectations in that she has a consuming need to be the center of attention, and seeks that attention inappropriately."

"So all of the men…her husbands and fiancé's…her overt flirting with you and Paul…it's a need for excessive admiration that drives her?"

"Paul spoke at length with Dr. Craig, and he says individuals suffering from character disorders often exhibit something called _ego-syntonic_ behaviors – behaviors that are inappropriate in so-called normal societal morality but which are perceived to be appropriate by the individual. They are preoccupied with their own self-importance, believing that they are special and entitled to special treatment."

"How long has she been this way?"

"David told Paul the onset of character disorders are typically at the beginning of adulthood, but can sometimes be traced back to adolescence and in rare cases to early childhood. She married your father at eighteen, and was committed to a mental hospital for the first time when she was twenty. The timing fits perfectly with her diagnosis." He kissed the top of her head where it rested on his shoulder. "David says such individuals have virtually no effective coping skills, which often results in complete breakdowns as the illness progresses. He theorizes that your mother was highly functioning until some catastrophic event pushed her over the edge."

"Me?" The single word was filled with agony. "Was I that catastrophic event?"

Perry hugged her so hard she let out a squeak of protest. "Of course not! There is a lot we don't know about that time. Paul and Faulkner couldn't interview your father, and I instructed them to stay away from Mae."

"I told you I had a bad feeling about what we'd learn," Della fretted. "Did David Craig say this…this character disorder thing is congenital?"

"Any self-respecting psychologist will tell you that the notion of inherited mental deficiencies is an embarrassment to the profession." He ran his fingers across her hip with intimate familiarity. "Her propensity for marriage certainly isn't congenital."

"Ha, ha," she said with no trace of humor whatsoever. "That woman appears on my doorstep twenty-five years after abandoning me, and I find out she left because she's certifiably nuts. What a heritage. You should be thanking your lucky stars I never said yes."

"I thank my lucky stars every day for a very different reason," he said quietly.

Della pushed herself to a sitting position, her face just inches from his. "Are you feeling sorry for me?"

"No. Are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

Della blinked at the question. "I – I don't know. I haven't had time to process everything you've told me."

"Della, it may have been the best thing for you that your mother left. Think about what your childhood was and factor in a mentally ill parent to go along with your grandmother and father."

"But why didn't anyone tell me she wasn't well? I never even saw a picture of her, and no one ever answered my questions about her. It was like she never existed." She averted her eyes fleetingly, "I was a baby. I had no memories of her at all."

"We'll ask Mae. I have a feeling that aside from your grandmother, she knows more about what went on back then than anyone."

"Are you catching on to why I dislike this house so much? So many secrets."

Perry put his arms around her once again and cradled her slenderness against him. "Two more days," he reminded her. "We only have two more days to get through."

"What else did Paul have to say?"

Perry stared thoughtfully at the parched grass of the sloping front lawn for several seconds. "She doesn't work. Unless you consider moving from man to man and taking with her not only part of his heart, but most of his bank account a career."

Della clutched his shirt and buried her face in the crisp fabric. "I wish I didn't look so much like her," she said in a muffled voice. "No wonder my father never had any use for me. I reminded him of his greatest humiliation."

"What was it your grandmother said to you? Pretty is as pretty does? Nothing she's done has been pretty, Della, but everything you do is pretty."

"Now that I know she exists and where she lives, do I have to let her in my life? I really would rather not have to compete with her for your affections."

Perry laughed despite the seriousness of the moment. "She hasn't a chance with me," he assured her. "I have a feeling what we've seen so far is the 'normal' Eve, and I don't care for her one bit. I can't imagine what my reaction would be to her in the throes of her illness."

"I've decided I'm not going to feel sorry for myself, but should I feel sorry for her?"

"To a degree, I suppose you could. I can't tell you how to feel about her."

She pushed herself away from him again, but this time climbed completely out of his embrace and stood in front of him shaking out her wrinkled skirt. "I'm going to take a nap in front of a fan," she announced. "It really is too hot out here to cuddle."

Perry took her hand, well aware that she was running away from him to mull over everything he'd told her about her mother, closed off and alone. Della's predictable coping methods more than made up for her mother's deficiencies in that area. "I'll wake you up in an hour."

She squeezed his fingers. "You'll tell me what else Paul found out after dinner."

He nodded at her command. He'd told her the worst part, the part he'd dreaded, and she had taken it like a trouper. He could only hope she emerged from her nap in the same mood and that he could keep things on an even keel for her until she slept properly. She was floundering before his eyes, and it hurt to see her so out of sorts, unwilling to be placated by good sense. He would have to watch what he said very carefully, something he had never had to do with Della.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Emmett Childers had been Katherine Street's attorney for thirty-seven years, following the untimely demise of his father Eugene in an accident caused by his younger brother Edison, who also lost his life. The elder Childers had been Katherine Street's husband's attorney and then hers since the premature passing of her husband Walker, and she felt it important to keep her affairs as private as possible. Therefore, she entrusted her interests with Eugene's eldest son, fresh out of law school and barely ensconced in the office his father had so proudly prepared for him at his firm. He had admirably managed her modest holdings coming out of the Depression into an impressive portfolio and remained devoted to her even in death.

It had been his client's wish that a specific list of people be contacted for the reading of her will on the second day following her passing. She never explained to Emmett why the reading had to be on the second day, and he had never asked. One of the main reasons he had been her attorney for thirty-seven years was his ability to go about his business without prying questions. So he had dutifully contacted everyone on Katherine Street's list and arranged a reading for ten o'clock Saturday morning at the Street mansion.

It was now ten minutes to ten, and Emmett Childers announced that all but two people expected had yet to arrive. With some grumbling, Carter had rearranged the furniture in the parlor to face Katherine's intricately carved five drawer mahogany writing desk where her attorney was now seated. Henny was making sure that anyone who wanted coffee got a cup, Della was downing cup after cup of that coffee and yawning, and Perry was trying his darndest not to as he scanned the collective heirs to Katherine Street's fortune with open curiosity.

Henny Vander Velde had arrived at eighty-thirty and bustled about the kitchen preparing coffee and laying out assorted cookies and biscuits dropped off the previous day by the mass of townsfolk wishing to convey their condolences. Jameson and Carter were surprised to learn that she had actually been called by Emmett Childers to attend the reading, and was not there simply in her capacity as an employee.

Lawrence and Sarah Allensworth arrived at nine-forty, and were introduced to Perry as the parents of Della's life-long friend Miranda. Sarah Allensworth was also the daughter of Katherine Street's life-long friend Esther Dalrymple, who had passed away eight years before.

Eve Wyman floated down the stairs at quarter to ten, dressed in a sinfully expensive dove grey silk dress and a smug smile, with no lingering signs of the previous day's malady. She alternated coy glances toward her ex-husband and Perry Mason as she collected a breakfast of cookies and coffee before seating herself front and center in the red velvet love seat.

Perry lost his battle with a yawn just as a powerfully built man dressed in an impeccable blue suit appeared in the doorway. Hiding behind the pretense of the yawn, he studied the new arrival carefully. The man could be his own relative. Tall and long-legged, gifted with lustrous wavy black hair lightly shot through with grey and piercing blue eyes, the man exuded confidence. He entered the room with an unapologetic swagger, and headed straight to the coffee service Henny had laid out on the sofa table.

"Garrett," Della said in quiet surprise, lifting one eyebrow.

"Who's Garrett?" Perry recovered from the prodigious yawn and leaned toward Della. She smelled like Palmolive soap, a breath of freshness in the stale, stuffy parlor and wore a simple sleeveless white eyelet blouse, a grey-blue skirt sprinkled with tiny embroidered daisies and flat white shoes. He had commented on the outfit upon collecting her from her room to escort her to the meeting, and she had given him a small smile and a terse explanation that it was something she had 'left behind' and been forced to wear because the clothes in her suitcase consisted of shorts and bathing suits and negligees meant for lounging at the lake house and not for attending readings of wills or accepting company hell bent on being recognized for conveying their condolences in the passing of the great Katherine Street. The addition of gold dangle earrings and the gold charm bracelet he had given her on their second anniversary transformed the outfit from teeny-bopper to sophisticated and he longed to methodically divest her of every stitch by candlelight with Sinatra crooning in the background.

"Garrett Kirby," she replied out the side of her mouth.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "So that's Mae's ex-husband, huh? Handsome devil."

"I'd forgotten how much you resemble him in build and coloring."

"There is a superficial resemblance," Perry admitted. "He's in good shape."

"Garrett was always very concerned with his looks. It's rumored that he colors his hair. Aunt Mae said one of the reasons he wanted a divorce was that he didn't think she would age well."

"The cad," Perry seethed. "Would she be upset with me if I punched him in the nose?"

Della gazed at him with affectionate amusement. "It wasn't the only reason, and she would be mortified if she knew you knew." She squeezed his arm. "But thank you for the sentiment."

"Just say the word and I'll be more than happy to re-landscape his face."

"I wonder why on earth he's here. I don't really know why any of these people are here. Father and Carter will get the house and the mill. She probably bequeathed that damn piano to me."

"Did your grandmother have cash assets?"

Della shrugged. "She could have, I suppose. I always got the impression that the bulk of whatever the mill netted was re-invested, but I didn't actually pay much attention when they talked business. She held all the shares except for a few Aunt Mae inherited from Grandpa Sherwood that she signed over to Garrett in the divorce."

That surprised Perry. "Really? That's very interesting. Who's this?"

Della turned and suddenly stiffened at the sight of a small, bird-like grey-haired woman in a floral print dress standing in the parlor doorway. The woman made a beeline for Eve Wyman, brushing past Jameson Street without so much as a glance. "It's Bitty Sherwood, my step-grandmother. She kidnapped me when I was four and held me for ransom."

Before Perry could respond to that forthrightly delivered bombshell, Emmett Childers clapped his hands together loudly. "Everyone that Katherine Street wished to be summoned is here now, except for Mae Kirby, who could not attend and Junelle Barton, who respectfully declined to attend. Please sit down."

"Perfect word, summoned," Della whispered to a still-speechless Perry.

There was a bit of shuffling as the gathering of apparent heirs settled themselves in chairs that Carter had arranged in a semblance of a semi-circle facing his grandmother's desk. Emmett Childers stood, pulled an eyeglass case from the pocket of his suit coat and very deliberately slid a pair of reading glasses onto his aquiline nose. He unfolded several pages of thick cream-colored paper and cleared his throat. "Katherine Street was a no-nonsense person," he began, and rattled the papers in his hands. "She instructed me to skip over formalities and legal jargon and get right to the point."

He lowered his head and glanced at what everyone assumed was the last will and testament of Katherine Ann Jameson Street, then peered at the assemblage before him over the rim of his glasses. "Della gets everything." He abruptly re-folded the sheaf of papers, sat down, and removed his glasses.

No one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed.

"Catch her," Garrett Kirby shout echoed in the cavernous parlor, "she's going to pass out!"

* * *

Della stared at Perry, mouth slightly agape, hazel eyes huge in her pale face. Carter and Jameson were attending to a limp, shell-shocked Henny while Garrett Kirby and Eve Wyman had managed to lift Bitty Sherwood back into the loveseat from which the elderly woman had fallen. Lawrence and Sarah Allensworth were still seated on the sofa, watching and waiting anxiously, wondering if they dared sneak out in all the commotion.

Perry regarded Della soberly. "It appears you won't have to work now."

Della's expression cleared and hardened. "I suppose I won't," she replied coldly.

Perry was instantly remorseful of his words. "Della, I didn't mean –"

"Be quiet," she hissed. "Mr. Childers, you can't be serious, but if you are, I declare right here and now that I don't want anything from my grandmother."

Emmett Childers removed his glasses and leaned his arms on Katherine Street's writing desk. "I'm quite serious, Della. Your grandmother's entire estate is now yours. The mill stock, the house and its contents, the property, her liquid assets, her earthly possessions; all of it is yours. She was adamant in her instructions."

Perry rose to his feet and placed his hand on Della's shoulder. She shrugged it off irritably. He replaced it and held on more firmly. "If you don't mind, Mr. Childers, I'd like to read Mrs. Street's will. I'm an attorney."

Emmett Childers sat back in the carved mahogany chair and laced his fingers over a slight paunch. He smiled at Perry Mason. "I know very well who you are, Mr. Mason," the attorney said. "You are more than welcome to read Katherine's will. However, it is merely a formality. The substance of her bequest to Della is in the form of a letter and several supportive documents." He nodded toward the sheaf of paper he had laid on the desk. "The letter is addressed to everyone she requested to be present."

"That bitch!"

All eyes swung toward a red-faced, furious Eve Wyman, who had uttered the expletive. "She promised! She was supposed to give me the rest of the money for –" Della's mother suddenly clamped her lips shut and lowered her head. Bitty Sherwood, recovered now from her swoon, put her arm around her distraught step-daughter.

"The rest of the money for what, Evie?" Jameson Street ceased patting Henny Vander Velde's hand comfortingly. Carter seized the hand and held it tightly in his own. Jameson looked around the room in bewilderment. "Did my mother make promises to all of you? What's going on here?"

Emmett Childers pushed back his chair and stood. "Jameson, I think you had better read your mother's letter. It explains everything."

Della's father passed his hand over his face in frustration. "I'm in no frame of mind to read anything now, Emmett. My mother, to whom I was completely devoted, has reached out from the grave and slapped my face. And she invited all these people to bear witness to my humiliation."

"Oh Jameson, don't be so dramatic," Bitty Sherwood spoke for the first time. "Katherine humiliated you your entire life. You were just too _**devoted**_ to see it."

Jameson Street spun on his former in-law. "Be quiet, Bitty. I can't conceive of why you are even here."

"Can't you? Think hard, Jameson."

"I know why," Della offered in a small voice.

"We already know how smart you are," Eve Wyman said tartly. "Let your father figure everything out himself."

Jameson Street lowered himself to a chair slowly, all color draining from his face. "She paid you." He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing emerged. He gulped visibly and stared at his ex-wife. "She paid you to leave. She paid you to divorce me and abandon our child. And she paid Bitty a ransom when she took Della..."

Eve Wyman calmly ran her hands over her expensive silk dress. "Very good, Jameson. Now we know where Maeve got her brains."

Carter made an unidentifiable noise. "Maeve! I had forgotten all about that."

Henny Vander Velde shook her head in confusion. "Who is Maeve?"

"I'm Maeve." Della told her. "My name was changed when I was two."

Sarah Allensworth expelled a breath that she probably had been holding for many years. "You have no idea how difficult it was not to slip and call you Maeve when you were a child. We all thought Miranda might, but she never did."

"Was the whole town in on this little name conspiracy? What difference would it have made to tell me my name was changed?"

"Katherine didn't want you to know," Sarah Allensworth replied, as if that made perfect sense.

"She didn't want you to know a lot of things," Eve Wyman added mysteriously.

"Obviously, if she paid you to disappear from my life." Della gripped the edge of the piano bench, which she had inexplicably selected as her seat for the will reading. "You had no interest in meeting me, did you? Grandma Bitty called you and told you about Grandmother."

"That is not true. I saw your picture in the paper."

"Perhaps you did, Mrs. Wyman," Perry interjected. "But that was merely a convenient coincidence. You weren't planning to contact Della until Mrs. Sherwood contacted you and you decided to initiate a last-minute connection with the daughter you abandoned before the woman with the money passed away. You were covering all bases."

"You've been a criminal attorney too long," Eve told him breezily. "You misinterpret the most innocent of intentions as suspicious."

"I don't think so," he replied slowly. "How much did she pay you back then, and what did she promise to pay you upon her death?"

"None of your business." Eve Wyman smiled engagingly at Perry Mason. "I don't have to explain why I did what I did or what transpired between me and my mother-in-law."

"The letter explains everything," Emmett Childers repeated for the benefit of anyone who might listen.

"I forbid that letter to be distributed until my attorney has had the opportunity to read it," Eve Wyman said quickly. "I'm fairly certain Katherine slandered me."

"Libeled," Della corrected her mother.

"What?"

"Slander is verbal. Libel is a written state – "

"Yes, yes, yes," Eve Wyman interrupted impatiently. "I still insist that my attorney read that letter before any other eyes see it."

Emmett Childers pursed his lips slightly. "The letter is an adjunct document to Katherine Street's will. The will was duly witnessed and filed. It states that Della is to receive the entirety of her grandmother's estate in standard legalese. The letter explains why in Katherine's words. I assure you that the utmost attention was paid to the construction of the letter. It was witnessed and notarized three months ago."

"All that is neither here nor there," Eve Wyman said with confident finality.

Della held out her hand. "I'd like to read it."

Her mother gave an exclamation of exasperation. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

Della visibly prickled. "I don't give a rat's –"

"Mrs. Wyman," Perry hurriedly interrupted Della. "The tort of libel is extremely difficult point of law. You must prove that the written statement was false and made without adequate knowledge as to the validity of the statement. But most importantly, you must prove that the statement caused harm and be able to quantify that harm. You as much as admitted that your mother-in-law paid you to divorce your husband and leave town. We all heard it. You have no legal right to impede the distribution of that letter before it has been read."

"I also insist upon my attorney reading the letter before it is distributed," Garrett Kirby announced. His voice was not deep, but it was commanding. Perry could tell he was accustomed to getting his own way, much the same as he himself was. "I made no incriminating statements."

Della's hand dropped to her side. "I'll play your silly game," she said to all assembled. "Since I'm the sole beneficiary of Grandmother's estate, I insist that _**my**_ attorney read the letter before anyone else's attorney."

Emmett Childers handed two sheets of the cream-colored paper with satisfaction to a grinning Perry Mason.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Perry closed the door to Della's childhood bedroom behind him and turned the key in the lock. "That was a rather brilliant maneuver on your part, darling."

Della lowered herself onto a flowered slipper chair and kicked off her shoes. She wriggled her toes for a moment before shrugging. "I learned from the best."

Perry dragged a matching delicate slipper chair at an angle to hers and sat down somewhat gingerly. "I thought your bedroom would be different," he commented, gazing around the room, taking in details of her life as a child in this house.

"You mean not nauseatingly pink? My grandmother insisted on the wall color. She also chose the upholstery for the chairs. I like the chairs themselves but the fabric is hideous. Her girdle must not have been pinching her one day because she allowed me to pick out the bedspread and pictures."

"The room smells like you," he said softly. "I miss you."

Tears sprang in Della's eyes. "I've been sniping at you for two days and you can say that?"

"We're supposed to be on our debauched vacation, not sleeping across the hall and two rooms apart from each other. I figured you were sniping at me out of frustration."

Della actually laughed while tears trickled down her cheeks. "I wish we were anywhere but here. Have I annoyed you terribly?"

"I would hazard a guess that I annoy you much more than you annoy me. That crack about not having to work anymore…it was uncalled for."

"So was kissing me silly and then leaving me alone and frustrated in the kitchen with all those dirty dishes."

His fingers gently brushed at a tear. "And so was thinking that I have anything but your best interests at heart."

Della drew in a shuddering breath. "It must be this house. It brings out the worst in me. Why don't you read the letter now? There is an angry mob waiting impatiently for us downstairs."

"Do you want me to read it first and then read it to you?"

She shook her head firmly. "Just read it cold and get it over with."

He chucked her under the chin encouragingly before unfolding the heavy linen stationery. "_Emmett Childers has made the announcement that my granddaughter Della Katherine is the sole heir of my entire worth as well as my personal possessions_," he read and looked up at Della. "She plunges right in with no salutation or preamble."

Della nodded. "As Emmett said, Grandmother was forthright and direct."

Perry lowered his eyes again to the letter. "_I know my decision will undoubtedly be a shock, but it was the easiest decision I ever made in my life. Della Katherine is the only person whom I could not coerce with my wealth, or my social position, or even my relationship to her. She is worthy of all I have bequeathed her by virtue of a strength of character and a moral standard sadly lacking in all of you asked to attend the reading of my will."_

Della gasped. "I amend 'forthright and direct' to 'big, fat liar'. She punished me mercilessly any time I dared stand up to her. I went without dinner so often the year I turned fourteen the doctor actually threatened to report her to the authorities. I was so thin you could see every bone in my body."

Perry wanted to cry for Della, the flower trying desperately to flourish through a crack in asphalt all those years. He knew what he had learned in the past few days was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg, that the abuses piled on her were buried deep within her, hidden from all who knew her. He wanted to shake her until she broke down and told him everything, so that he could hold her and comfort her and eventually heal her. But he finally understood why the circumstances of her childhood emerged in dribs and drabs: to let too much out at one time would be too painful for her to endure.

"_Sarah Allensworth, your mother was my friend for seventy-five years. At one time she needed a large sum of money, but refused to tell me why she needed it. I would have given her the money but she insisted I purchase the only thing of value she possessed: her jewelry. Emmett wrote up an agreement and can provide a copy if you wish. The day she died, Emmett delivered a letter confirming what I already knew the money had been used for and that she had requested that you and Lawrence continue paying off her self-imposed debt, which you have not. I think you understand why my agreement with Esther is voided and your mother's valuables now belong to Della."_

"_Elizabeth Sherwood, you kept my granddaughter locked in a dark bedroom during a visit I didn't have to allow and demanded that every penny your husband invested in the mill be refunded although the original investment had already been repaid in full and then some through stock dividends. I agreed to continue paying those dividends to you out of respect for Della's grandfather, whom I greatly admired. It was that admiration that kept you from being arrested and sent to prison for your despicable criminal act. It is now up to Della whether or not you will continue to receive those dividends."_

Della covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro. "I can't stand it," she moaned. "She was a horrible person and she wants me to perpetuate her horribleness."

Perry didn't quite share Della's assessment of her grandmother. In two short paragraphs a woman with a steely resolve and a no-nonsense approach to life was emerging. Nothing he'd read so far appeared vindictive or cruel. On the contrary, he recognized loyalty and fairness and an honest, unsentimental grasp of frailties in the people who touched her life as she explained why Della had been given her entire worth.

Della was crying now, huge tears rolling unchecked down flushed cheeks. "I remember that day. Grandma Bitty locked me in a room by myself and I cried. Grandmother came for me later. I wasn't allowed to be alone with Grandma Bitty anymore after that."

Katherine Street's words and Della's pain were killing him. He reached out and took her hand. "Can you handle the rest of the letter?" he asked over a huge lump in his throat. "I'll finish reading it and paraphrase later."

She sniffed and shook her head. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. "As difficult as it is," she said, wiping her tears, "I need to hear it all if I'm to figure out what to do with her estate."

As a criminal attorney Perry Mason had seen a lot of human pain, but had learned to effectively detach himself from it. With Della he couldn't detach himself. Her pain was his, and he didn't like the helplessness such pain carried with it. He took a deep breath and continued.

"_Garrett Kirby, you are rotten to the core and Mae Sherwood did not deserve what you did to her. Every detail of what happened the night Mae nearly died is in a notarized statement held by Emmett Childers. You married her to get at the mill, and you nearly succeeded. In all these years Jameson has been unable to completely eradicate your presence, but any attempt at legal filings for shares of my mill will result in the publication of that statement and humiliation like you've never experienced."_

"_Mae Sherwood Kirby, I liked you best of all the Sherwoods, and admired how you maintained such a fondness for Della despite the events surrounding Eve's disappearance. However, you constantly interfered with my granddaughter's upbringing, and unfortunately after your divorce from Garrett, all my admiration for you vanished when you accepted my offer of funding your move to California in exchange for letting me deal how I saw fit with the physical limitations of the women in your family and your sister's unfortunate mental status. I do advise Della to share whatever portion of my estate she wishes with you because however much I disapproved of her move to California, I know you looked after her and gave her sound guidance."_

Della grabbed at Perry's hand. "Aunt Mae almost died? Physical limitations? What the hell is she talking about?" she asked in agitated, bewildered alarm.

Perry had never felt so weary in his life. The onion he was peeling definitely became increasingly rotten with every discarded layer as more and more secrets surrounding Della were revealed. "When we're through here we'll call Mae." He realized his words sounded inadequate, but he also realized Mae was probably the only person who would tell them the truth, even though it was now apparent she had hidden that truth in exchange for money. He hoped she had been thinking over everything she had done to keep Della in the dark and could repair the inevitable crack in their relationship.

"Is this happening? Am I really sitting in my childhood bedroom on this chair listening to you read a letter from my dead grandmother?"

"It's really happening, I'm afraid."

Della bit her lip. "How many more paragraphs?"

He glanced down briefly. "Six. You mother is next."

She sighed. "Wonderful. Go on."

"_And we come to Eve Sherwood Street, my former daughter-in-law, absent now for twenty-five years, a woman-child who broke her husband's heart and abandoned her daughter for money. What you endured giving birth to my granddaughter was admirable, knowing that the outcome could very well have been tragic. But we recognized that a breakdown was inevitable, and as your mind faltered I could not allow you to harm my granddaughter. I don't regret offering you money to leave and divorce my son, and I certainly don't regret changing my granddaughter's name. But I do regret promising more money upon my death if you stayed away from Della because rewarding you for actually doing it is morally reprehensible. So I won't do it."_

"_Junelle Daniels Street Barton, mother of our beloved Daniel, you healed my son of his mourning for the unfortunate Eve and brought life back to this house. However, when you announced that you wanted a divorce to marry another man, you put into motion events that would forever change my family. And even though you were the adulterer, you scrabbled for every cent you could get from Jameson to feather your new nest. For giving us Daniel you are due a fraction of my estate, but the size of that fraction is now Della's decision."_

"_Miss Henrietta Vander Velde, you are to be my granddaughter by marriage, having somehow turned my grandson's attention away from the mill. However, Carter is a trepidacious soul like his father, and the caveat to his proposal is that your marriage cannot take place until he knows for certain his future is secured. I'm sorry, Henny, but I cannot provide that security. I think very highly of you and although Carter is my own flesh and blood, he is not worthy of you."_

"_Carter, my first-born grandchild and tireless bearer of the Street family reputation, you are no doubt appalled to be excluded from what you have always assumed was your birthright. But that is exactly why I did it. The time you spend at the mill is a path of penance you set yourself on because you are unable to explore what it is that truly inspires you and afraid to make your way on your own. Learn from your sister's example."_

"I'm beginning to seriously doubt my grandmother wrote this letter," Della broke in.

"Shhh," Perry shushed. "Only two more paragraphs. Next is your father."

"I can hardly wait to hear this one."

Perry gave her a slight frown before beginning to read once again. "_Jameson, my only surviving child, you have been a source of great pride as well as great disappointment."_

"Ladies and gentlemen, mother of the century, Katherine Street," Della interrupted snidely.

Perry frowned again. "We're almost finished. Could you kindly keep that devastating wit under control?"

She sat up straighter in the chair, crossed her ankles in a most lady-like manner and folded her hands in her lap. All trace of tears had vanished. "Please continue, Mr. Mason."

"_The prevailing mindset is that you were a figurehead at the mill and that I actually pulled all the strings. That is not entirely true, for if you studied the matters brought to my attention, more often than not I simply passed through what you advised because you required constant validation. The mill has flourished under your tenure as President, and this town should be grateful to you. However, as a person you lack certain qualities that make successful men admirable."_

"Grandmother was highly concerned with admiralty," Della informed him mischievously. "Let's go back and count how many times she claims to have admired something."

"Admiralty? What the hell did Henny put in that coffee? Whiskey?"

"Then tell me the proper word. Admirability? Admireness?"

"Either admirance or admirative depending upon the required tense."

"Admirance," she decided with satisfaction.

He glanced sideways at her. "Well, I'm glad we settled that. Shall I continue?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "By all means."

Perry rolled his eyes.

"_By denying what you so clearly expected you will need to find the strength and wherewithal I sincerely hope your experiences with Eve and June didn't destroy for good."_

Perry paused and Della clapped her hands. "Oh goody! Time for me, time for me! I'm so excited."

"I don't care what I've said in the past, I will turn you over my knee, Della Street."

She stuck out her tongue at him.

"Della," he began seriously, "maybe we should leave it. The letter contains nothing substantive for any self-respecting lawyer to claim legitimate libel. Even calling Garrett Kirby rotten to the core would be argued as purely personal opinion. Let's go downstairs and instruct Emmett Childers to distribute the letter to the gang."

"Did you peek at the paragraph about me? Are you trying to spare my feelings?"

"Noooo, I'm trying not to feed into this craziness and appeal to your good sense."

All frivolity left her expression. "Since I apparently come by craziness naturally, I'll let that comment pass. Read it to me," she directed.

Their eyes locked for a few seconds before Perry finally broke the gaze. _"All of this has led to Della Katherine, my only granddaughter, and the one person in the Street family who actually lived up to their potential. I'm sure you are confused and angry with me for leaving you to sort out the messes I entangled myself in with these people. I know you can do it because I raised you to be strong and independent the way my mother raised me. You bent but didn't break, no matter how much pressure I put on you. You are a smart girl, Della. You recognized that living in this town and stepping into my shoes was not your destiny. I didn't like it because of all people, I wanted very much for you to find your destiny here. Two years ago you returned, confident, successful, and happy. I was upset when I realized that you would continue to live your life far away from me and my behavior toward you was nothing short of detestable. As I write this letter the only communication from you since that visit has been a single Christmas card. It is my own fault. I could have written or called, but pride wouldn't allow me to. I'm not an affectionate woman. I told my husband I loved him on our wedding night and again as he lay in a casket. I told my son I loved him the day Carter was born. I've never told Carter I love him that I recall, but I do. I loved Daniel – who didn't? And I love you."_

Perry took a deep, unsteady breath and looked up at Della. "That's it."

He had never seen a person battle tears as fiercely as she was at that moment. "Th – that's it?" she sputtered. "How could she do this to me? Did she think this letter, this _**paragraph**_ in a letter, could possibly make up for all she did to me?"

Perry knelt at her feet and gathered her into his arms. She sank against him, her arms wound around his neck as she buried her face into his shoulder. "I don't know, baby. What do you think?"

She lost her battle with tears again and let them stream hotly down her cheeks. Her arms tightened as her body convulsed with sobs. He rocked her gently, stroking the back of her head gently to soothe her. His shirt was sopping wet by the time her last sob passed and she began to sniff.

"I think I need your hanky again," came her muffled, tearful voice, finally answering his query.

Perry smiled and mopped her face with the scrap of monogrammed cotton. "Feel better?"

She shook her head and blew her nose as he directed. "Uh-uh. I'm mad as hell."

"Tell me, Della," he begged. "Tell me what it was like growing up with her. Tell me more stories like the Pathetique and Grandma Bitty and how skinny you were at fourteen."

"I can't," she wailed in quiet agony. "If I don't talk about it, she can't hurt me anymore."

"Della," he said sharply, regrettably a bit too sharply, "If I read that letter correctly, every single person mentioned can hurt you _**right now**_. Your grandmother is gone. She can't hurt you anymore. Let go of your hate for her."

Her face contorted again as fresh tears pooled in her eyes. "But I don't hate her," Della whispered almost too quietly for Perry to hear. "I loved her."


	13. Chapter 13

_Wishing everyone a safe, happy, healthy New Year! ~ D_

* * *

Chapter 13

The unusual heat wave that had settled over the state was in its third day and despite the addition of summer canopies over both east and west facing windows, the house became uncomfortably hot by noon. Large ceiling fans in the main rooms on the first floor helped some, but if the oven was turned on the additional heat would become trapped in the kitchen and dining room. It was with this thought that Della contemplated the variety of food neighbors and employees of the mill had dropped off the previous day as word spread of Katherine Street's passing.

She had left her shoes up in her room following Perry's reading of her grandmother's letter and the tile floor was cool on her bare feet as she padded from refrigerator to table, from table to counter and back again, grateful for something to occupy her mind. 'The gang' had dispersed quickly after receiving copies of the deceased's letter, each eager to find a private corner in which to read Katherine Street's reasoning for reneging on promises made to them and designating her granddaughter as the sole heir to her holdings. Emmett Childers had requested a private conference with Perry, and Della took the opportunity to escape to the kitchen by herself to mull over her unexpected admission. Perry had attempted to draw her out, but she wouldn't talk to him. He had become upset with her, with how she withdrew to battle her thoughts alone, and she had become upset with him for trying to force her to talk about something she wasn't ready to talk about. Their walk from her bedroom back to the parlor had been uncomfortably silent.

Della carved thick slices from Fran Shaffer's two-pound meatloaf and stacked them artfully on a small pink Depression glass platter. Bowls of fruit salad and cold German potato salad as well as freshly baked bread, a bottle of homemade ketchup and a jar of mustard joined the platter of meatloaf in the center of the table. She was on her tip-toes pulling plates down from the cabinet when Perry spoke behind her.

"May I say something without upsetting you?"

She calmly turned and eyed him contemplatively, the stack of plates held cradled in her arms. "Whenever you preface a statement like that, I'm fairly certain you will upset me no matter how prepared I think I may be. Are you going to defend what my grandmother wrote or why she saddled me with her unfinished business?"

He shook his head. "I didn't know her, and you've told me very little of what it was she did, so I can't very well defend her. But I would be remiss in my duty as your attorney to point out that it really doesn't matter _**why**_ she left you everything. The reality is that she _**did**_ leave you everything."

"And why could you not have imparted this bit of wisdom _**before **_you began reading the letter?"

His eyes were dark with emotion as he advanced further into the room. "Because along with being your attorney, I am the man who loves you, and sometimes I have to make a decision which of those roles is best suited for the situation."

"Go on," she prompted, shifting her weight to accommodate the heavy plates.

"As the man who loves you, I want to know as much about your family as I possibly can." He waved the copy of her grandmother's letter at her. "I don't see the cruel, vindictive woman you insist your grandmother was. She was tough and outspoken for certain, but the woman who wrote this letter did so out of loyalty and fairness and honesty."

"All you know of her is that letter," she said, suddenly shaky. She took a couple of steps forward and set the plates down on the table.

"That's because you refuse to tell me anything," he said gently accusing. "Every word out of your mouth about your grandmother has been bitter and angry, yet you just admitted that you loved her."

"Of course I loved her. She was the only mother I knew. Children do that, you know. They automatically love those who take care of them."

"I'm sorry, Della, but I'm not buying that. You were as surprised as I was by what you said."

Della pulled out a chair and sat down, rubbing her eyes wearily with the palms of her hands. "I'm so confused," she admitted. "I hate this house, and now it's mine. What do I do with it? What do I do with everything in it? It's going to take more than two days to sort this out."

Perry sat down next to her, sideways in the chair, facing her. "We'll figure it out."

"I'm glad you're my lawyer," she said with simple honesty.

"So am I. But you do realize my rates are exceptionally steep." His eyes were twinkling.

"What, no employee discount?"

"Not when that employee is an heiress."

Della pulled a face. "Do we know to what extent I'm an heiress? What did Emmett want to talk to you about?"

"He showed me a handwritten list your grandmother gave him of every item in this house. Would you like Mr. Childers to perform an inventory?"

She nodded absently as she pulled a fragrant loaf of freshly baked bread toward her and proceeded to slice it quickly and efficiently with a long serrated knife. "I think that would be best."

"That's why I told him to go ahead with it."

She flashed him a faint smile. "How much did that cost me?"

Perry leaned forward, his eyes still twinkling. "One kiss."

She sighed dramatically. "I can only imagine what you'll charge me for reading Grandmother's letters and supporting documentation."

"I'm imagining it already," he growled, as his lips sought hers.

* * *

Perry and Della snuck out of the house following lunch while her father and brother received visits from several business associates and Henny was again preoccupied with finding places to put all the food, which had become a full-time job due to the sheer amount and variety. Eve Wyman had disappeared into Jameson Street's study to call her fiancé, and Emmett Childers was skulking about, methodically making check marks next to Katherine Street's listing of personal possessions. Perry was surprised the older attorney was personally undertaking the inventory, until Della told him he was in reality semi-retired, but continued to handle her grandmother's affairs because she demanded that he do so.

"Besides," she said, sliding beneath the steering wheel and scooting over so Perry could get in, "it will give him something to do and take his mind off of his wife. I overheard Grandma Bitty ask him how he was getting along since Vera passed away. She was a nice woman. I would like to do something for him."

Perry gunned the Galaxie to life and swung it down the sweeping driveway. "Letting him be responsible for the personal aspects of your grandmother's estate will be all the payment he'll want," Perry predicted. "I think he cared for your grandmother as more than a client."

"I never did understand his devotion to her," Della mused. "She treated him like chattel, calling him at all hours of the day and night for one thing or another. Father employs a team of attorneys based in Chicago for the mill, and Grandmother was always suspicious of them. She made Emmett look over almost every contract they put together. I don't think Emmett had any inkling about the veracity or validity of those contracts, and probably only pretended to so that Grandmother wouldn't take her personal business elsewhere."

"Maybe," Perry said, in an equally musing manner. "You realize we'll have to meet with those Chicago attorneys."

Della groaned. "We don't have time for all of this. Do you know what it took to carve out two weeks for our anniversary trip to the lake?"

"Speaking of our anniversary, mine is Tuesday." 'Their' anniversary was actually divided into two days: the first day being the day they met, which Perry insisted was their true anniversary; and the next day when Della actually began working for him, which she maintained was the rightful date of their anniversary. "Is there an Italian restaurant anywhere?"

Della groaned again. "Will we still be here Tuesday?"

"Darling, we have arrangements to make to settle the estate. That takes time."

"Don't you know anyone around here? An old law school buddy or the brother of a law school buddy…?" she trailed off and looked at him with such hope that he laughed.

"I'm afraid not. All my buddies stayed in California." Her crestfallen expression made him laugh again. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll call Jim Brandis tonight and see if he can find someone out here we might feel comfortable with retaining. By the way, where are we going?"

"Let's go downtown to have a cherry Coke and leaf through the comic books at _Rexall Drugs_. Then I'll show you Miss Roseanne's dance studio and _Rog and Bob's Marathon_ station, the Elks Club and the _Sun_ movie theater…"

"Can my heart take all that excitement?" he asked as her words again trailed off into silence.

"There's also _Woolworth's_ and _Skogmo's."_

"Well that settles it," he declared, braking the car at a stop sign. "I don't know what the hell a _Skogmo's_ is, but I can't wait to find out."

The street Della's house was on crossed Sherwood Street, and she nodded when he raised his eyebrows. He turned left onto Sherwood at her direction, slowing as they drove by a large square Edwardian house in need of a coat of paint that Della tersely told him was the Sherwood family home, and then turned right three blocks down onto Allegan Street. He spotted the big orange _Rexall_ sign on the corner of Allegan and Farmer Streets almost immediately. The front of the building was all glass block, which curved around the corner and softened its squareness. The first parking space from the corner was unoccupied and he easily backed into it.

After downing the best cherry Coke he'd had since his childhood at the soda fountain counter and catching up on Superman's latest exploits, he and Della walked back out into the hot sunshine of early afternoon. Perry tucked Della's hand into the crook of his elbow as they strolled up the street, past an appliance repair shop, a shoe cobbler, a _Woolworth's_ five and dime store, a jewelry store (Perry wanted to go in, but Della resisted), a rock shop that had closed at noon, and finally, _Lorna's_ dress shop on the corner of Allegan and Sherwood. They crossed the street and Perry discovered that _Skogmo's_ was a small department store featuring everything from clothing to household items to tools, and that _Judy's_ _Diner_ had undergone a rather radical facelift recently. Another drugstore, this one not part of a chain and called _Gamble's,_ was sandwiched between a dentist office and a florist on the corner. They crossed Farmer Street to the bank, _Hinkle's Bakery_, the newspaper building, and finally, _Rog and Bob's_ _Marathon_ station and repair garage. Directly across from the garage was the parking lot for the _Sun_ _Theater_, the theater itself, the law offices of Vernon Hartzler, Della's classmate who had bought Emmett Childers's practice, _Miss Roseanne's Dance Academy_, and _Pete's Pub_, which was owned by Miranda Allensworth's perennial boyfriend Peter Stanton. And then they were back in front of the _Rexall_.

"That was certainly a whirlwind tour," Perry remarked, assisting Della back into the Galaxie.

"Be nice or I won't show you where my paper mill is," she warned.

Perry rolled down the window and stuck his arm out as a signal of his intent to vacate the parking space even though not one car was visible on the road. "I'm being quite charitable in my comments," he claimed. "Exactly how many people are there in this town and where are they on a summer Saturday afternoon? I expect to see a tumbleweed blow by any minute."

"The sign outside of town said that 'four thousand friendly people welcome you'." Della couldn't contain a smile as she fanned herself with her hands. "They are probably too smart to be out in this heat or they're all at Gun Lake cooling off."

Perry turned left at the one traffic signal in town off of Allegan Street and onto Farmer Street, which sloped sharply downward before evening out. An indescribable smell assailed his nose. "What in hell is that smell?"

Della wrinkled her nose. "That," she announced, "is my paper mill." She pointed forward toward the windshield. "There it is, on the right."

The building was low and sprawling, the top portion painted a dark royal blue, the bottom portion constructed of redbrick. The front of the building obviously housed offices for the clerical staff and bore the name _Milliron Corrugated_ in tall, shiny brass letters. Several impressive smoke stacks and cinder block silo-like structures surrounded the building, which stretched for at least two city blocks behind the administrative portion of the mill. As they drew closer, the stench grew worse.

"I had no idea paper smelled so bad," Perry said, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch his nose.

Della laughed. "I don't know about standard paper," she told him, "but corrugating medium produced from wood pulp and waste paper does. What you smell is the sludge pits, which run alongside the river beyond the parking lot and the warehouse. The sawdust pile is over there, too."

Perry raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "The sawdust pile?"

Della nodded, and he felt she was actually excited to tell him about the mill that now belonged to her. "It's huge," she said, flinging her arms out expressively. "You can see it all the way from D Avenue Hill."

"What is D Avenue Hill?"

"It's the hill where the highway crosses D Avenue," she said patiently, as if everyone knew where D Avenue Hill was located. "When we finally head for the airport, we'll look back. It's really quite impressive."

Perry braked the car at the stop sign and noticed that the cross street was Orleans. Henny lived on Orleans Street. He wondered how on earth anyone could live cloaked in the stench of the sludge pits, whatever those might be.

And then he found out what a sludge pit was when a puff of breeze carried in another whiff. He rolled up the window quickly as Della laughed. "Your family business is a menace to the health and well-being of this town," he charged.

"Quite the contrary," Della responded matter-of-factly. "The sludge pits are actually an innovation that reduces pollutants that previously had been pumped into the river in their raw state. _Milliron Corrugated _is a state-of-the-art facility and credited as being the front-runner in the industry. When I was here last, Father and Carter were working on the warehouse, as well as a capacity expansion and contracts to produce gypsum board. It makes sense, since the gypsum mines are less than an hour away."

Perry kept the car braked at the intersection of Farmer and Orleans and stared at Della admiringly. "You never cease to surprise me, Della."

She shrugged. "I couldn't help but pick up a few facts over the years."

"I can't fathom why the entire town doesn't smell like this."

"Because the mill is at the bottom of the hill in the river basin," Della explained as patiently as before. "There has to be quite an updraft for the smell to disperse into the air."

"What about all that smoke coming out of the smokestacks? Doesn't that disperse it?"

"It's steam from the boilers, not smoke. The waste, or sludge, contains all the odor."

"It certainly does," he agreed with feeling. "My God, what is _**that**_?"

Della grinned hugely. "That's the sawdust pile."

Perry braked to lessen the bump and rattle of railroad tracks that ran alongside the new warehouse. "That's not a pile, that's a mountain. Where are the sludge pits? We're about to cross the river."

"Continue across the bridge and then turn right. The pits are behind and upriver of the sawdust pile. It's actually a combination of wood chips and sawdust, but that doesn't have quite the same ring that just plain old 'sawdust pile' does."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Perry said. Then a moment later, "Okay, I've now experienced the sight and smell of sludge pits. How quickly can we get out of here?"

Even Della had rolled up her window as they passed the interesting but foul pits. "You're lucky the aerators aren't activated. That's when the smell is really bad."

"Will I have to live with this smell in my nose the rest of my life?" Perry pushed his foot down on the gas pedal and the Galaxie's transmission jumped into another gear with a hesitant jerk, putting distance between them and _Milliron Corrugated's_ claim to fame.

Della was laughing again as she shook her head, delighted by the discomfort of his first up-close experience with a paper mill. "Follow this road," she instructed. "There won't be another bridge until the next town. If we open all the windows, the smell will be gone by the time we get home."

Perry glanced sideways at her as she stuck her head out the window and let the hot air of the day whip her wavy hair into a mass of unruly curls and thought to himself that he had never known a more beautiful, surprising, desirable woman than Della Street.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The attorney and his secretary took their time driving back to the Street home and it was nearing six o'clock when Perry finally turned into the inclined driveway to be met by the sight of several people seated on the porch.

"Welcoming committee or lynch mob?" Perry inquired peering through the windshield.

Della squinted into the setting sun. "Good grief, it's not only Father, Carter, and Henny, it's Mrs. Wyman, Grandma Bitty, Garrett, the Allensworths, and…and Miranda," she counted off in surprise.

Perry pulled the Galaxie next to a white Cadillac but didn't turn off the engine. "I don't think I like the look of this."

"I know I don't like the look of this," Della said in dismay. "They've been plotting something."

"Welllll pardner," Perry drawled, "We have two choices: run away or face the music."

She squinted toward the porch once again. "They have food," she announced. "And cocktails."

Perry shut off the car's engine. "That settles it. Food and cocktails it is."

Miranda Allensworth flew down the steps the instant Perry opened the car door, and was standing at his side hopping from foot to foot impatiently as he reached back into the car to assist Della out. Della barely had time to adjust her skirt before Miranda had her clasped in a bear hug. "Oh Del," she practically wailed, "I can't believe Grandmother Katherine is gone!"

Della caught Perry's eyes over Miranda's shoulder and made an aggrieved face. Perry tried not to grin.

"I know, Miranda. We both thought she would live forever, didn't we?"

"Uh huh," Miranda said, hugging Della tighter, seemingly perilously close to tears. "She hadn't lost a step…mentally I mean. Of course her hip bothered her and it took her _**forever**_to go up and down the stairs…are you going to introduce me to the very handsome man you brought with you?" She abruptly let go of Della and turned to Perry Mason. "Miranda Allensworth," she said, not waiting for Della to introduce her. "I'm Del's oldest friend. I've known her since she was a baby. There is a picture of me holding her when she was only a few days old."

"Perry Mason," he said, highly amused by the faces Della continued to make behind Miranda's back. "I'd like very much to see that picture."

"Then I'll find it and bring it over. I must admit that I know who you are, Mr. Mason," Miranda Allensworth chattered on. "Del and I still correspond." She linked her arm through his and set off for the porch, leaving Della to trail behind them, scowling.

"Do you now."

"Oh yes. I wasn't a bit surprised when Mother said you had accompanied her home."

It was Perry Mason's turn to make faces at Della over Miranda's head. Her scowl deepened and he had a difficult time holding back laughter. "I am honored to meet you, Miss Allensworth. Any friend of Della's is a friend of mine."

They had reached the bottom of the steps and Miranda let loose of Perry's arm to run lightly up to the porch. "Your description of him was seriously off the mark, Mother," she chided, confronting Sarah Allensworth, hands on hips. "He's way more handsome than Michael."

"Who is Michael and am I really way more handsome than him?" Perry whispered urgently to Della.

Della wanted the earth to open up and swallow her at that moment. She had hoped to keep Michael Domenico out of her life this trip. Miranda had mentioned in her most recent letter that he was in England on an extended vacation with his family. "Michael is…he was my…my…Ellen," she mumbled, turning away from him, spots of pink forming high on her cheeks. "I told you about him. He's out of the country."

"Pity," Perry said, dramatically disappointed, enjoying immensely how she blushed.

"Not really." She scowled again.

"Are you two coming up or not?" Miranda demanded, hands still on hips. "Henny wouldn't let us eat dinner until you got back. I'm so glad you didn't stay away much longer. There are lots of yummy appetizers, but dinner is already laid out in the dining room. I'm starving."

"Has Miranda always been this irrepressible?"

Della nodded as they climbed the steps. "She can be a bit much, but she's right about being my oldest friend. We spent a lot of time together as children."

"We certainly did, Del," Miranda agreed cheerfully, catching the last of Della's reply. "Sometimes Mother and Grandmother Katherine even dressed us alike." She broke into a giggle. "Remember the cowgirl outfits? Mine was blue with silver fringe and yours was red with gold fringe. And you had little black boots with red stars on them! I have a picture of us in those outfits."

"I'd _**really**_ like to see that picture," Perry told Miranda, shooting Della a wicked glance.

Jameson Street stood up from the wicker rocker he had been seated in. "Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Mason?"

"Thank you, but stay where you are. I'll make drinks for Della and myself." He strode toward a wheeled cart that had been outfitted with an ice bucket, several glasses, stoppered decanters of Scotch, bourbon, and gin, as well as tonic and soda. He poured Della a Scotch and soda, and bourbon on the rocks for himself. "I apologize if our little excursion today delayed dinner. You really didn't have to wait for us."

"Just what have you been doing all day?" Carter was sitting in a wicker love seat with Henny Vander Velde, who held her drink white-knuckled in her hands, eyes downcast.

"I've been showing Perry the sights," Della spoke up. "We had a cherry Coke at the drugstore and walked around town. Then we went for a drive along the river. We passed by _Dean's_ and I wished I hadn't had the cherry Coke so I could have had an ice cream cone."

"Did you take him to see the mill?"

Perry handed Della her drink and took a sip of his own. The bourbon was good, excellent, in fact. "We drove by," he affirmed.

"What do you think?"

"I think it stinks."

There was a moment of strained silence until Bitty Sherwood burst out laughing. "Finally, someone honest enough to tell the truth."

"After a while you don't even notice it," Jameson Street said stiffly.

"Really, Jameson, even after a while it's still terrible," Eve Wyman joined the conversation. "I think it stinks, too, Perry."

"It may stink, but that stink has provided a lot of jobs and prosperity to this town for a long time," Carter pointed out imperiously.

"My first job was at the mill," Lawrence Allensworth offered. "Jameson's father let me work whenever I was home from college. I didn't mind the smell."

Miranda wrinkled her nose. "Oh Daddy," she sighed with exasperation, "how can you say that? We're fortunate that the mill is in the river basin and we live up on the hill."

"It's true that after a while you don't notice the smell," Henny said quietly.

There was another uneasy silence as everyone realized that Henny lived not far from the mill at the bottom of the hill on Orleans Street. Perry took advantage of the lull in the conversation to hand Della a square of cheese on a Ritz cracker topped with half a large green olive and quickly popped two into his own mouth.

"Has anyone ever smelled a slaughter house?" Garrett Kirby asked. "There is one outside of Dodge City. The smell burned the hair right out of my nose."

"Garrett!" Bitty Sherwood exclaimed.

"Dodge City? Like in _Gunsmoke_? It's a real town?" Miranda's eyes were large and round as she directed her question to Garrett.

He nodded. "Yes, Dodge City is a real town in Kansas."

"You visit all the fanciest places, don't you, Mr. Kirby?" Eve Wyman asked him a bit snidely.

Garrett regarded his former sister-in-law, whom he knew only by reference and inference, with a bland expression. "I hear you get around yourself, Mrs. Wyman."

"Not that this tete-a-tete isn't immensely enjoyable," Perry attempted to draw attention away from the verbal battle brewing between Garrett Kirby and Eve Wyman, "but Della and I can't help but think that we are about to be ganged up on."

"Nothing could be further from our minds," Jameson Street assured him, taking the bait. "We all simply decided that sniping at each other wasn't conducive to the matter at hand and that we should all get along."

"I don't think Mrs. Wyman and Mr. Kirby got the memo," Della said dryly.

"What matter are you referring to, Mr. Street?" Perry asked, suspicion evident in his question.

Jameson Street raised one eyebrow in practiced surprise. "Why, the matter of what Della is going to do with her grandmother's estate."

"Good grief!" Della exploded. "Give it a day to sink in before coming after me."

"Della," Eve Wyman said in a soothing voice, "we aren't coming after you for anything. We're merely curious as to what your plans are."

Della turned to Perry. "She's got swamp land in Florida for sale, too."

He grinned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eve demanded as Garrett Kirby did a poor job of stifling a laugh.

"It means, Mrs. Wyman," Perry said, still grinning, "that your daughter isn't buying into one word you say."

Henny Vander Velde suddenly got to her feet and clapped her hands. "What say we go inside, sit down at the dining room table, and have a civilized conversation over some of that delicious-looking food the wonderful people of this town dropped off? Carter, bring in the drink cart please."

* * *

The conversation was indeed a mite more civilized inside, primarily because it all but ceased for some few minutes as plates were filled from the mahogany sideboard buffet. Carter transferred the cocktail service from the wheeled cart to the sideboard as well and everyone but Bitty Sherwood refreshed their drinks before settling down to dine on cold fried chicken, mustard potato salad, and baked beans that were still slightly warm in their glazed ceramic pot.

"I must say, Della," her father began, waving a drumstick in the air, "I'm disappointed that you would think our motives are anything but solicitous toward the position your grandmother placed you in."

"From what I understand, you placed yourselves in your own positions with Grandmother and I'm to sort them all out. Who wants to go first?" Della scooped a forkful of potato salad into her mouth and sat back chewing while she observed the effect her words had on those gathered around the enormous oblong table.

"Go first?"

Della nodded. "Who wants to be the first to explain what it was they did to make Grandmother break her promises?"

Several dozen looks were exchanged in various combinations around the table. Perry continued to eat with relish, while keeping close tabs on what everyone said and did.

"That's hardly what anyone had in mind, Della Katherine," Carter told finally spoke up.

"Then how does anyone expect me to decide what to do? Grandmother specifically asked me to clean up her messes and I can't very well do that if I don't know what exactly those messes are." She took another bite of potato salad then set her fork down and drummed her fingers on the tablecloth, chewing and waiting.

"I don't know what I did to her." It was Carter who spoke first, almost petulantly. "I was a good grandson. I worked at her precious mill and kept to myself. I knew what the Street name and reputation meant to Grandmother and I took it seriously. Unlike some people in this room."

"You kept to yourself so well you almost don't exist," Eve Wyman said maliciously. "Are you even a man, Carter?"

"Evie!" Bitty Sherwood gasped.

"I would expect you to say something like that. I was old enough back then to know what kind of a woman you were, Evie, and I doubt you're much different than when you left. Why don't you just tell everyone why you disappeared into the night? Go ahead, tell them. Or has _**getting older**_ given you a conscience?"

Della swung her head to face her mother. "Yes, Mrs. Wyman, tell us why you left. I'd really like to know, since no one has ever deemed it necessary to explain anything to me, and I'm beginning to doubt the story you told in Los Angeles."

"I wish you'd stop calling me Mrs. Wyman." Eve Wyman dabbed daintily at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "And I'm sure by now you know perfectly well why I left. Counting a detective among your friends must lead to some interesting stories."

"Tell me why I should call you anything _**but **_Mrs. Wyman. In the four days since you showed up at my apartment you haven't acted very motherly toward me."

"I'm hardly old enough to be your mother, Della. We're more like sisters." She stole a sidelong glance at Perry, then lowered her eyes demurely.

Della gave her mother an incredulous look. "Of course you're old enough to be my mother! You _**are**_ my mother!" She shook her head and gave a little laugh, then suddenly sobered and looked across the table at her father with wide eyes. "She is, isn't she?"

"This entire conversation is ludicrous," Jameson Street replied irritably. "Of course Evie is your mother. I wish to heaven she wasn't, but she is."

Bitty Sherwood gasped again. "Jameson!"

Della continued to stare at her father. "Life would have been easier without me, wouldn't it have, Father?"

"Della," Perry said in a conciliatory tone, trying to head off any remarks she might regret, "I don't think your father meant – "

"I don't particularly care what you think right now, Perry. I'm talking with my parents."

Perry very deliberately pushed his plate away from him, placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him. "Then by all means, continue," he said tightly.

"Thank you. Where were we…oh yes. My mother would prefer to be my sister and my father would prefer not to be my father. Do I have that right?"

"What I meant was that it would have been better for you if she wasn't your mother." Jameson Street picked up his drink and swirled the ice with his index finger. "There are things you haven't been told."

"No shit," Della snapped.

Perry jumped to his feet, moved behind her chair and clamped his hand over her mouth. "Della apologizes profusely for her unladylike outburst," he told everyone with a disarming smile. "I'm afraid I've been a bad influence."

Della struggled against his hold on her, furious at him. "Don't apologize for me! I knew that word long before I ever met you. Miranda taught it to me."

Miranda sipped placidly on a gin and tonic, calm despite the escalating tension surrounding her. "Has anyone told you about your real name?"

Della batted Perry's arms away and gave him a scathing look before turning to confront Miranda. "You're pretty proud of yourself for keeping that little secret, aren't you? What did Grandmother promise _**you**_?"

"Only what is rightfully mine."

Della narrowed her eyes at her oldest friend. "Grandma Esther's jewelry?"

Miranda nodded. "Grandma brought me here once a week to look at everything and tell stories about all the grand parties she wore every piece to. Her jewelry was all she had left after the crash and Grandpa refused to sell it because most of it was hers before they got married. Grandmother Katherine should have given it to me when Grandma died. It's mine, not yours."

"Miranda, it's my understanding that our grandmothers had a legal agreement that was voided by your parents." She was seeing a new side to her old friend Miranda. The flighty chatterbox who always followed and never led was suddenly greedy and a bit vindictive.

"Why should I suffer because my father is a louse?"

Once again Bitty gasped but it was Sarah Allensworth who exclaimed, "Miranda!"

"I know all about Daddy's little indiscretion, Mother," Miranda said with a scornful sniff. "I've heard you talking. I shouldn't have to give up what's mine because of what he did. Grandma promised to give me her jewelry and I want it."

Lawrence Allensworth stood and threw his napkin onto his plate. "This stops here and now," he boomed. His wife and daughter jumped, as did Della. Lawrence Allensworth never, ever raised his voice. "I did something unforgivable, for which your mother miraculously forgave me, and Esther…your grandmother wanted your mother to be happy, so she paid for what I had done. She did it for her daughter, for you, for your brother…and I should have continued to pay her debt to Katherine." He turned to Della. "I'll have a bank draft delivered to you Monday to clear Esther's debt. But under no circumstances do I want that blasted jewelry in my house once the debt is repaid."

"Grandmother paid to cover up something you did?" Della's head began to pound. Was no one in this town without secrets?

Miranda pushed back the chair and threw her napkin on her plate as well, eyes locked to her father's in burning fury. "Tell her what you did, Daddy," she challenged. When her father remained red-faced and silent, Miranda turned to Della with a cruel smile. "How's this for a deep dark secret? You dead brother's best friend Tony Domenico isn't Michael's brother. He's Michael's _**nephew**_. He's _**my**_ brother."

"Whoa, that makes what I did pale in comparison," Garrett Kirby interjected, incongruously cheerful.

"I think Mae is the only person who can properly judge what you did, Garrett," Bitty Sherwood said hotly.

"At least there was no child involved," he shot back, then all color fled from his face and his eyes shifted nervously from Bitty to Jameson. He picked up his cocktail and drained it in one gulp.

"You bastard," Bitty said through gritted teeth and everyone stared at her, speechless. "Your child nearly killed Mae and you couldn't have cared less. We looked everywhere for you and when Jameson finally found you with that Jessup harlot, you stayed and comforted _**her**_. Mae was devastated and calling for you, and I had to tell her you weren't coming."

Della flung her arm out, blindly searching for Perry, who hadn't returned to his seat but remained standing behind her. He grabbed her arm with both of his. "Aunt Mae had a baby? Why didn't I know this?"

"She was barely pregnant. It wasn't really a baby," Garrett insisted defensively. "I never understood why everyone was so upset. It's not like she had any business even trying to have a baby. We all know that."

A sob escaped Della. "No! We don't all know that. What are you talking about?"

"Garrett, don't…" Jameson Street began but it was his ex-wife who cut him off.

"He's talking about how my grandmother died giving birth to my mother, and how my mother almost died giving birth to Mae – how she did die giving birth to me." Eve picked up her cocktail with shaking hands. "He's talking about how I nearly died giving birth to you, and finally how Mae nearly died simply by being unfortunate enough to conceive his child." She jerked her head toward Garrett Kirby. Her hands were shaking too much to bring the glass to her lips so she set it down, knocking it sideways and spilling its contents over Katherine Street's fine linen tablecloth. "He's talking about how you should never, ever conceive a child or you could die, too."


	15. Chapter 15

_Note: I wrote this chapter long before the news of Kate Middleton's bout with acute morning sickness (medical term hyperemesis gravedarum) was reported, basing the malady suffered by the women in Della's family on actual women I've met. This chapter is quite serious and contains adult themes. ~ D_

* * *

Chapter 15

"It was me," Della whispered in utter anguish, the fact that she had been responsible for her mother's descent into a lifetime of mental illness tearing at her own sanity.

Perry tried to gather Della into his arms but she jumped to her feet and he should have known better as she fought violently against him. Her tears had stopped, to be replaced by a wild-eyed panic. "Don't touch me," she commanded, on the edge of hysteria. "I have to get out of here. Let go of me, Perry."

He released his hold on her so she could do what she did best: run away to deal with her pain. His heart was so heavy he could barely breathe as she turned her back on him and headed unsteadily for the door.

There was mumbling and murmuring as the odd gathering of people from Della's life past and present dispersed, following Della out of the dining room, and wandering into different rooms in the house. In moments only Jameson Street remained in the dining room with Perry.

"I need to talk to you," Della's father told him soberly, his steely eyes clouded, his shoulders slumped. "Come into my study."

Jameson Street closed the door and indicated one of the stately wing chairs that flanked his enormous mahogany desk but Perry Mason shook his head, choosing to stand instead as he sipped his bourbon.

"Things have become very awkward, have they not?" The older man walked stiffly to the window behind the desk.

"I would say that is the understatement of the century," Perry proclaimed. He could barely control the trembling of his own body.

"Evie doesn't know how to be a mother."

"Any more than you know how to be a father." Any more than I know how to be a husband, or even a supportive lover, he thought with searing agony.

"Touché', Mr. Mason." Jameson Street tossed back his own drink and set the glass down on a credenza equally as ornate as the behemoth of a desk. "Would you like to hear a sad story?"

"Sadder than the one I just heard? Go ahead. Make me cry."

Jameson Street frowned. "Are you always so confrontational?"

"Only when I'm trying to cover up something stupid I've done," he admitted. Why had he insisted that they come here? He shouldn't have been so stubborn in response to Della's stubbornness – and even though she should have told him more about her family, he should have recognized that telling him caused her undeniable pain and allowed her to tell him whenever she felt she could.

"Ah, something we have in common. I, too, did something stupid."

"And what would that be?"

"I married a child, Mr. Mason," Jameson Street replied soberly. "And I allowed that child to nearly destroy me." Jameson Street stared out the window, his back ramrod straight. "I was old enough to know better, but I had been alone for six years and my mother had taken over making personal decisions for me while I struggled to keep the mill viable. The Sherwood family wasn't completely ruined in the crash and Bruce Sherwood was willing to invest his family's future." He turned and smiled ruefully over his shoulder at Perry Mason. "We desperately needed capital for new machinery and expansion if we wanted to recover and compete as the economy gained strength. The caveat was that our families merge. Literally and figuratively."

Jameson paused to let the attorney absorb his words. Perry leaned against the heavy mahogany desk, simultaneously crossing his arms and his ankles and taking a sip of his drink. It helped to quell the tremors of worry over Della and the sad fact that she had again refused to turn to him for comfort.

"Mae was the elder daughter," Jameson continued. He had turned back to the window so he missed Perry's surprised expression. "Everything was arranged by Bruce Sherwood and my mother. Mae and I were forced together on several occasions in a farcical courtship chaperoned either by Lawrence and Sarah or by Evie tagging along on our 'dates'. The only problem was that although I liked Mae and she had no serious objections to me, I couldn't marry her." He made a noise between a snort and a laugh. "The arrangement had been made with the wrong daughter."

Perry cleared his throat. "You had fallen for Eve?"

"God help me, yes. I was nearly twice her age, but I couldn't help myself. My first wife was a lovely woman, calm and quiet of spirit…Mae was too much like her. I wanted more in my life after mourning for so long. I wanted Evie's youth and exuberance, and she was very convincing when she claimed to want me."

Perry nearly spit whiskey out his nose. Mae, 'quiet of spirit'? He coughed to cover his reaction and nodded at Della's father to go on. He would need to call Mae again and apologize for what he had said.

"Our parents weren't terribly pleased, but when I pointed out the object was to combine what remained of the family fortunes, they reluctantly consented. Evie and I were married on her eighteenth birthday. She became pregnant quickly. Too quickly. We should have been more careful."

Perry set his drink down on the desk blotter as Jameson Street wandered from the window on the wall behind the desk to the window on the wall alongside the desk. He pulled back the summer drapery and stared morosely out at the driveway. "She was very sick," he said quietly. "She literally wasted away before our eyes. Her doctor suggested the pregnancy be terminated, but Evie screamed and carried on and we couldn't console or calm her. The doctor said she could die as her mother had, but she was still determined to have her baby. I'm ashamed to say I sided with the doctor because all I wanted was for Evie to be well."

Perry stared at Jameson Street, the man who would have ended Della's life before it began, and bile rose in his throat.

"She did get a bit better," Jameson continued, oblivious to Perry's stony stare. "And miraculously she managed to carry Della to term."

"You mean Maeve," Perry interjected. He thought he could strangle this man with his bare hands and not regret it for a moment. Justifiable, he would argue. And he would win.

Jameson Street nodded almost absently. "The Street family has a long tradition of naming children very specifically. Evie balked at naming a daughter after my grandmother, whom she didn't get along with, and began referring to our child as 'Maeve' from the moment her condition was confirmed. She was convinced the baby was a girl." Della's father smiled faintly. "I don't think she wanted a boy to be named Sherwood even more than she didn't want to name a girl Della."

Perry uncrossed and re-crossed his ankles. "How did she manage to win the name game?"

Jameson laughed mirthlessly. "She almost died, that's how. She was weak from being sick for months and the doctors didn't think she would survive the birth. But she did. Then she lapsed into a deep sleep. I signed the birth certificate naming our daughter Maeve Marie over my grandmother's and mother's protests and sat by Evie's bed praying for her to wake up." He heaved an enormous sigh. "She woke up eight days later. I learned to be careful what I wished for."

"What happened?"

"Evie wasn't the same person. Her behavior became erratic and she took reckless, foolish chances – and claimed not to remember what she did or why she did it. Truth and reality became foreign concepts to her. Once she stole a horse from the Allensworth's stable and rode it bareback two counties away. I had to drive over with a horse trailer and pick her up after the sheriff called. She said the horse told her it was okay."

"What about Della?"

Jameson Street took several seconds to reply. "Evie couldn't concentrate. She lost track of time. She sometimes forgot to change the baby's diapers or to feed her while she simply stared out the window combing her hair obsessively. Once she drove downtown and left Della in the market. I was frantic when she came home with a load of groceries but without the baby and broke every speed law getting back to the market. There she was, chewing on a toy, sitting exactly where Evie had put her down and told her to stay. She was nine months old. At least a dozen people had to have walked right by her, but she was so quiet no one noticed."

Perry passed a hand over his face. He had hoped at first that Della could have a relationship with her mother, but the more he learned about Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman, the more he just wanted her to go away. And the more Jameson Street talked, the more Perry disliked and distrusted the man. Too many secrets had been kept for too long, secrets that had the potential to ruin several lives, including his own.

"By the time Della was a year old, Evie's behavior was so unpredictable and dangerous my mother and grandmother forcibly took over caring for her. Evie threw another screaming fit and disappeared for several days. When she turned up and wouldn't tell us where she had been, I had no choice but to commit her."

Perry shifted glittering eyes from his shoe tops to Jameson Street's back. "You had no choice," he echoed, knowing it to be so.

"My ex-wife, Mr. Mason, could not tell the truth if was written down for her and had proven she couldn't be trusted not to harm herself or her baby. That is why she has the not-so-honorable distinction of being the last woman to deliver a baby in the Horace Chapman Memorial Hospital and of being the first female patient in the Horace Chapman Asylum for the Mentally Disturbed."

* * *

Jameson Street abruptly turned from the window and faced Perry Mason.

"I'm not proud of my life's decisions, Mr. Mason. I married unwisely and when my wife broke down I allowed my mother and grandmother to take over. I signed commitment papers. The doctors said Evie should never become pregnant again. I signed more papers."

Perry narrowed his eyes at the older man in sickened contempt. "You had her sterilized." This stunning revelation had not been in Paul's report.

"It was to save her life – but still allow her to be a woman."

Loathing for Della's father made it difficult for Perry to speak as he once again battled the shakes. "Don't give me that. It was to allow you to be a man."

Jameson Street shook his head emphatically. "No, I wouldn't have…I just wanted Evie," he finished helplessly. "She wasn't well, had probably never been well, but I still loved her."

Perry craved a cigarette badly. Della's father's candid confession grew more sickening with every word, but he couldn't cut it short no matter how bad a taste it left in his mouth. He had to know every awful truth so he could help Della deal with her childhood or they might very well not have a future together, especially considering what they knew about her mother and what both her parents had just revealed. He picked up his abandoned drink, drained it, and set the glass down on the desk blotter again very deliberately. "But you didn't get Evie," he said with assured finality.

"No, I didn't. She was in the hospital for nearly a year. When the doctors released her, I went to pick her up but she had walked out sometime in the night and vanished. It was the day after Della's second birthday. Several weeks later I received Nevada divorce papers in the mail. My mother advised me to sign them and be rid of her. So I did. Then I signed papers changing my daughter's name. It seemed all I did for months was sign papers my mother put in front of me. I allowed my mother full reign over Della while I tried to convince Bruce Sherwood not to pull his investment from the mill. He was devastated when Evie disappeared and blamed me for everything that had happened. He died a year later, just two weeks after my grandmother passed away. It was a very difficult time for both of our families."

"And you never heard from Eve again?"

Jameson Street shook his head. "Not until she walked through that doorway two nights ago. I thought she would want to know about Della…she was so young and so ill and I didn't know what to do for her." He looked down at his shoes, then back up at the big man leaning against his desk. He sensed hostility in Perry Mason's posture, a hostility he knew to be rooted in concern for Della, and he couldn't hold it against him. "I made terrible mistakes," he admitted. "I have nothing but a cordial business relationship with my son, and no relationship whatsoever with my daughter. My third marriage was unhappy and ended bitterly. I couldn't tell you what day it was my youngest son died. I'm not much of a man, Mr. Mason, and no one will be deeply mournful when I die."

"No tears yet, Mr. Street," Perry announced. "Unless you meant them to be shed for Della."

Jameson Street waved away his words. "If nothing else, I'm a realist. When Della left for California my mother was grievously wounded, but I was angry that my daughter would turn her back on her obligations and hurt her grandmother so deeply. I didn't understand her. I still don't understand her."

"You don't know her," Perry said.

"She's reminded me of that often since she moved away. I can guess what kind of a relationship you have with my daughter, Mr. Mason. Her grandmother did not raise her to behave in that manner."

Perry was silent for a moment, his eyes hard and glittering. "Don't you dare judge her or lecture me about what you think our relationship might be after the story you just told."

Jameson Street's steely eyes were equally hard and glittering. "Tell me, Mr. Mason, are you toying with my daughter because she's young and pretty and had the potential to be very wealthy? Or is she just easy?"

Perry Mason's hands balled into fists, his rage barely contained. "Della doesn't have to answer to you, and I sure as hell don't, Mr. Street. I forced her to come out here hoping that she would confront the anger she had for her grandmother, and to possibly repair her relationship with you and her brother, but all I've done is hurt the best person I know." He pushed himself away from Jameson Street's ornate desk and headed for the door of the study. "We'll stay for a few days after the funeral," he tossed back over his shoulder, "because there are matters I need to attend to in regard to Della's inheritance before we leave the state. But mark my words, Mr. Street, for as long as I live, I will not bring her back here."

"Mr. Mason," Jameson Street called after his retreating back. "You say for the rest of your life, but how long will you actually stay with Della now that you know the truth about her and about her mother? You do realize my daughter can't give you a family. The doctors recommended to us that she be…"

Perry Mason spun and made two long strides before reaching out and grasping the man by his tie, choking him until his lips turned slightly blue. "If you say one word to her along those lines," he bit out, "there will be another funeral in town this week." He roughly released his hold on the older man's neck and turned once again to leave.

Jameson Street watched the man who loved his daughter ferociously stalk from the room and slam the heavy door to the study behind him. He sank into one of the shiny leather wing chairs, head bowed, hands dangling between his legs. Then he raised his head and looked heavenward. His mother's greatest wish had been granted. Della would be all right.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Perry was momentarily confused as he stood in the hallway outside Jameson Street's study. Right or left? Upstairs or outside? Anger burned his brain and clouded his vision. He shook his head. He needed a cigarette to quell the bile rising in his throat. He reached into his pocket but nothing was there. Cursing under his breath, he realized his case was in Della's purse along with his lighter. He knew she needed time before she would talk to him but he couldn't very well march upstairs, knock on her door, ask for his cigarette case and walk away without acknowledging what had been said and done earlier. Or maybe he could, after bearing witness to her father's cleansing of his soul. He turned right and headed up the stairs.

He stood in front of her door for several seconds nervously debating and it galled him. Never in five years had he been nervous with Della. The stricken look on her face, her tears, her constant pleading for him to understand what her life had been like in this house swam before his eyes and nausea nearly overwhelmed him as the startling words of both her parents echoed in his mind. He would apologize for practicing psychiatry without a license and if he was supremely fortunate, Della would forgive him and they would go home to deal with what they had learned. He knocked on the door.

Thirty seconds and several more knocks later he tentatively tried the knob. It turned easily and he swung the door inward, expecting to come face-to-face with her, but the room was empty. A window had been left open and a warm breeze stirred sheer white curtains, billowing them out into the room. He crossed to the vanity table where her purse rested and picked it up. His cigarette case and lighter were easily located and as he replaced the bag on the vanity, Della's voice, high-pitched and agitated floated in through the window from outside. Perry moved to the window and bent to discover what or who was upsetting her now.

Della and Carter were standing in the middle of the long curved driveway, practically nose-to-nose. Della was giving him what-for, her index finger poking Carter's chest, emphatically underscoring her words. Carter laughed and said something Perry couldn't make out. Della visibly shrank from her brother and brought her fist up to her mouth in distress. A split second later she was halfway down the driveway at a dead run, Carter's laughter punctuating her every step. Perry slammed down the sash, cursed out loud, and hurried from the room, his cigarette case and lighter forgotten on the vanity.

By the time he made it down the staircase, through the hallway and out the front door, Carter was climbing the porch stairs. Perry flew at him, grabbed him around the neck and ran him up against a pillar, pressing his head to the painted wood.

"Hey! What's the big idea?"

"What did you say to her, Carter?" Perry shoved his face into Carter's belligerently.

"What did I say to whom?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Carter. I saw you and Della from upstairs. What did you say to her? Where did she go?" He tightened his hold around Della's brother's neck in much the same way he had earlier held her father.

"I don't know what you're talking about." There was no fear in Carter's eyes, only a steely defiance.

"Tell me what you said to her," Perry said in a low, ominous voice, "or I will gleefully pull every appendage from your worthless body."

Carter's defiance shrank to a self-serving smirk. "I told her what she needed to hear. She should take her inheritance graciously and be glad she has it instead of whining about it. The money will more than make up for her, ah, shall we say, _**shortcomings.**_"

Nausea again gripped Perry and he feared he might not be able to resist the urge to throw up on Della's brother. "My God, Carter, how could you say something like that?" His voice was strangled, his mind in a frenzy of worry about Della.

"Yes, Carter, how couldyou say something like that?" Henny Vander Velde exclaimed in horror from the doorway. "Della's your sister. She has feelings and…and…it was a despicable thing to do after what Mrs. Wyman said." Carter's administrative assistant took two steps out onto the porch, arms clutching her middle as if she shared the same nausea felt by Perry Mason.

Carter's face turned red as the smirk transformed into panic. "I – I…she…why are we coddling her? Why is everyone so worried about Della? She got everything. She ran away from home _**AND SHE GOT EVERYTHING**_!"

Perry pressed Carter Street more firmly against the pillar. "Where did she go, Carter? Where would she run to?"

Carter's answering shrug bordered on insolence. "I don't know."

"Carter," Henny's lyrical voice snapped his name. "Tell Mr. Mason where she went."

"She went to the 'vangcant' lot."

Everyone turned to where Jameson Street stood in the doorway now, stirring a fresh drink with his finger.

"The what?" Perry demanded. Carter squirmed and he kneed him in the thigh. Carter yelped but stilled his movements.

"My son Daniel couldn't say the word vacant," Jameson Street explained. "It came out 'vangcant' no matter how hard he tried. There is a vacant lot one street over. Della most likely cut through several yards and is there already. She often spent time in that lot as a child. Both she and Daniel did."

Henny moved forward another step. "I know where it is, Mr. Mason," she said. "I'll drive you there."

Perry Mason shook his head. "Thank you, Miss Vander Velde, but I'll find it." He knocked Carter's head against the pillar one more time before releasing him and hurrying down the stairs toward the rented Ford Galaxie.

Carter's hands flew to his neck. "Maybe that kind of violent behavior is acceptable in Los Angeles, Mr. Mason, but here manners still count for something," he called ineffectually after the attorney.

"I believe Mr. Mason to be a civilized person, Carter," Jameson Street declared with parental authority toward his adult son. "However, we have attacked the person he holds dearest and we shouldn't fault him for resorting to force." His grey eyes shifted from his son to Perry Mason as the big attorney fumbled in his pocket for the car keys. "Find her, Mr. Mason," he instructed. "I'll deal with my son."

"I'm not a child," Carter protested.

"Then stop acting as if you are," Henny told him succinctly.

"Very well put, Henny," Jameson Street praised.

* * *

Perry had little trouble finding the 'vangcant' lot Jameson Street was convinced his daughter would run to. He parked at the curb opposite the overgrown lot and hurried across the street, circumnavigating a buckled sidewalk and a cobblestone path choked with moss and piles of 'helicopters' released by the surrounding maple trees.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Della's voice rang out from the depths of the lot.

Perry continued picking his way along the treacherous path. "It is I, my lady, your knight in shining armor come to slay the dragon that vexes you," he answered.

"Don't know any knights," she called back. "And the dragon has fortuitously expired on its own."

Perry broke through a tall hedge barrier commonly known as a 'burning bush', and came to a dead halt at the sight before him. Della, atop a crumbling stone wall that had once been the foundation of a rather large house, arms outstretched for balance as she calmly walked back and forth over jutting stones, executing a perfect pivot turn on one foot that presented her back to him.

She looked young and innocent in the full blue cotton skirt sprinkled with daisies that stopped just shy of her knees and the sleeveless blouse of white eyelet that exposed her long, slim arms. He followed her progress along the wall as she turned right at the corner that had been the back wall of the house and tottered partway down, then stopped to reach up and pluck a bunch of helicopters from a low-hanging branch. She ignored him completely as she pulled the seed pods from the stem and tossed them into the air one by one.

"You might think that I have achieved a certain maturity at my age and will not exploit this opportunity to look up your skirt." Perry leaned back against the crumbling wall, tilted his head, and grinned up at the view as she methodically dispensed with the helicopters. "You would be wrong."

"Boys will be boys," she opined unconcernedly.

"Indeed they will." He had discovered a partial pack of cigarettes and a book of matches in the glove compartment of the rental car and shoved them into his pocket. With shaking hands he pulled the crushed pack out and lit up, hoping to calm his nerves. By the time he resumed his ogling stance, she was no longer standing above him. He pushed himself away from the wall and scanned the ruined foundation. She was nowhere to be seen. "Della?" When she didn't answer, he picked his way through the tangled brush around the corner of the vine-covered stone wall. "Della?"

She was no longer on top of the wall. Breaking into a panicked sweat, Perry stubbed the cigarette out against a rock and made his way back to the spot he had last seen her. "Della!" He was at the lowest part of the wall now, where stones had either been removed by the kids who played in this 'vangcant' lot, or had simply collapsed after years of exposure to the elements. He didn't care that his weight might cause a full collapse as he scrambled up and over the wall – all he cared about was not finding Della lying in a crumpled heap on the other side.

The vegetation wasn't quite so overgrown as on the outer edge of the wall and he easily spotted Della crouched in the corner of the foundation, frantically pulling at climbing vines that clung to the stones. Expelling a huge sigh of relief, he reached her in a few long strides.

"For the love of Mike, Della, when I call you, answer." Beneath the wall where she had recently stood was a mound of dirt. She must have simply jumped onto the little hill and slid to the gravelly ground, as evidenced by long scrape marks in the stony earth.

She barely acknowledged him with a faint shrug of her shoulders. "I know it's here." Her slender hands continued to pull vines and leaves from the ancient foundation.

Perry grasped one arm and pulled her back onto her haunches. "What are you doing? Those vines will tear your hands to shreds."

She looked at him with glazed eyes. "I have to find it. Help me find it."

Perry squatted next to her and turned her to face him, frightened by the blankness he saw in her eyes. "Find what? What are you looking for?" This had nothing to do with the will reading, or what her mother had announced to everyone, or even what Carter had said to her that made her run away. This was something new, something different, and it worried him. She seemed lost, detached from him and her surroundings, desperate for a touchstone of some sort that could center her universe again.

"Danny's stone," she said urgently. "Help me find it."

Perry brushed unruly curls from her flushed face. "Of course I will. What am I looking for?"

Della suddenly sat down hard, her skirt ballooned around her with trapped air. "Danny chiseled his name in a rock the summer he died. He told me he did it so people would know he had been here. I need to know he was here."

He placed his hands on either side of her head and forced her to meet his eyes. "I'll find it, Della. I promise."

It didn't take him long to locate the stone Della so desperately needed to see. She had cleared away about three square feet of vines in the time it had taken him to scale the wall, and miraculously all he did was dislodge a stubborn knot of twisted leaves and there it was. The stone was grey with reflective flecks of black, approximately the size of his hand. Carved deeply into the surface, in meticulous block letters, was the name **DANIEL**.

Perry brushed his hand over the stone, which despite its recent camouflaging covering of vines felt warm, almost alive. "Della," he called quietly. "Come look."

Della crawled over the weed infested gravelly ground and came to lean against his shoulder. "He was here," she said with awed relief. "Everything I ever knew suddenly isn't real…I was so afraid…I was afraid I'd imagined him."

Perry straightened on his knees, turned, and pulled Della tenderly into his arms. "Danny existed, so therefore you exist? Is that it? Is this why you ran away – to find Danny's stone?"

Della held her body stiff and unyielding in his embrace. Her blank eyes stared off over his shoulder at her younger brother's name carved so neatly into the rock. "Among other things. Carter said I –"

"Carter is an idiot," Perry bit out harshly. "I could kill him for what he said to you."

"Don't say that," she said sharply. "You know better than to say anything like that, because the next thing you know we'll find Carter lifeless at the bottom of the stairs just like my grandmother and you'll be the prime suspect." Her hands slid up along his rib cage and over his chest before encircling his neck. "I hate that Carter told you what he said to me. It was bad enough you heard what my mother said."

"He pretty much had to tell me when I threatened to tear him limb from limb. Just say the word and I'll gladly perform the same operation on your mother."

Della sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. "You really shouldn't punish people for telling the truth."

"Nothing Carter said is the truth, Della. He may think it's the truth, but he's too small-minded and ignorant to see the actual truth. Don't even get me started on your mother."

"And what exactly _**is**_ the actual truth, Perry? I'm the pivot on which everything is turning, and even I don't know the truth. The evidence is irrefutable. My great-grandmother and grandmother did die young. I know exactly where their headstones are in the cemetery. And my mother has spent much of her life in institutions."

Perry brought one hand up to cup her chin. His lips were firm and familiar, and she was so happy to recognize his kiss in her suddenly surreal existence that she wept again. "The only truth that matters is what we have between us, baby," he told her gently. "I've wanted you to tell me about your family for years, but now that I've met them I say to hell with this place and these people."

Della laid her head back down on his shoulder. "I didn't want you to know what it was like growing up here. I'm not like them."

Perry tightened his arms around her. "Peas and asparagus," he said, harkening back to how she had once described herself in relation the rest of her family. "I know who you are, Della. Nothing anyone says can change the way I feel about you."

She raised her head to reveal eyes again pooling with tears. She had never cried so much in her life than in the past three days. "Nothing?"

"For better or for worse, kid," he said softly.

She sniffed. "You can't possibly still want…now that we know about…marriage is out of the question, Perry."

Perry smiled at her crookedly. "All these years of rejecting my proposals didn't mean marriage was out of the question? There was a chance you would have eventually said yes?"

"Maybe," she replied, as evasive as ever on the subject.

He hugged her to him tightly with a chuckle. "My darling, you have given me renewed hope."

"How can you say that?" she persisted, pushing herself away from him again. "The main purpose for getting married doesn't exist with me."

"What do you mean by 'main purpose'? Why do you think I want to marry you?"

Della stiffened once again in his arms. "I can't say it out loud."

"Della, I want to marry you because you make me happy. It's as simple as that."

"I can't marry you, Perry," she said sadly.

"You still make me happy."

"But will you continue to be happy? Can you honestly say that in ten years you won't look at me and regret that you didn't have a normal life?"

An odd reflective expression passed over his face before he replied. "I could have had normal. I could have had a lot of things, but Della, I never wanted them. I didn't want them until I met you. Not marriage, not the big house in Brentwood, and most assuredly not children."

"I can't let you…you should be a father. You deserve to have that experience, and with me…"

Perry brought her hand to his lips and kissed the palm very softly, tasting the bitter juices of the vines. "You've been telling me for years that I'm not the marrying type, and now you think I should be a father? That doesn't make sense, Della, and I won't allow you to use it as an excuse not to marry me."

"Nothing makes sense anymore," she said with great distress.

"_**We **_make sense, Della. You and I make all the sense I need in this world."

"Oh come on, the most eligible bachelor in Los Angeles, a brilliant attorney with unlimited prospects, and his secretary, a small town girl with virtually no prospects and a trunk full of secrets and lies to sort through? Sure. _**Everyone**_ sees the sense in that."

"Everyone doesn't need to see it. Only we need to see it."

She looked at him with misty eyes. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"You are very easy to be nice to. And let's not forget you are more than likely extremely wealthy."

She settled against his broad chest with a sigh. "I'm glad I get to see this side of you and not just the cranky disposition you present to everyone else."

He laughed out loud. The deep sound echoed off the crumbling foundation walls and caused chipmunks to scurry for cover. "So being authoritative and professional is now considered being 'cranky'?"

"You're also opinionated and impatient."

"Call me all the names you want, kiddo, you can't chase me away."

She snuggled closer, secure in his embrace. "Aren't you the least bit disappointed?"

"Of course I am," he admitted gently. "I know this has hurt you deeply, and when you hurt, I hurt, too. And furthermore, if that 'maybe' you admitted to ever becomes 'yes'..."

"But if that 'maybe' never becomes 'yes'…?" she interrupted.

He sucked in a breath and expelled it slowly. "I don't want anyone but you, Della, for now and forever. Do you refuse to marry me to hedge your bet? Do you want to be free to leave without a messy divorce in case someone else comes along and makes your heart go pitty-pat more than I do?"

She clutched at him. "No! I don't want anyone but you, either. When I'm old and grey my heart will still go pitty-pat for you."

"Then I'm happy to wait for you, Della."

"Why do you keep asking me to marry you if you know I'll say no?"

"Because I'm an eternal optimist."

"Or a glutton for punishment."

He placed his hands on her upper arms and held her away from him. "Or that," he agreed, his smile decidedly lopsided. "My mother always told me how happy she and my father were being married and that when I met a woman I couldn't live without I should marry her and do everything in my power to make her happy…I can't live without you, Della. I want to make you as happy as my father made my mother."

"You know the stellar examples of matrimony I've been exposed to. Add to that the fact that I…" she looked away momentarily to take a shaky breath. "There is still the little matter of the man you are."

"And the woman you are," he reminded her quickly.

"We are the perfect couple, aren't we?" The lopsidedness of her smile matched his.

He released her, got to his feet, and held out his hand to her. "Yes, we are."

She allowed him to haul her to her feet. "I forgot to include arrogant on your list of personality traits."

"It's a good thing I know you admire my arrogance or I would be deeply and irreparably wounded." He pulled her to him and brushed his lips over hers briefly. "Now, Miss Street, we have a very pressing problem to address."

"There are so many problems. Which is the most pressing?" She tucked her hand securely in his, picking her way carefully through the brambles and brush as he led her toward the low portion of the wall. Everything seemed to be a pressing problem lately. She longed for the days when only a client's life hung in the balance while they tried desperately to stay one step ahead of the police and the District Attorney. Familiar territory she could easily manage.

"Visitation is tomorrow and the funeral day after tomorrow and I know for a fact that you stubbornly refused to pack anything but a white dress of inappropriate material and design for such an event in your garment bag. What shall we do about that?"

"Up until this morning I would have worn the white dress and danced on her grave," Della replied without anger or bitterness. "Now I think I probably should wear something more appropriate. What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch before turning and lifting her up onto the wall. "Almost seven-thirty." She draped her arms over his shoulders and he leaned in for another quick kiss

"_Lorna's_ is open until nine on Saturdays."

He scrambled over the wall and caught her as she catapulted herself at him. "Does Lorna supply a chair for weary male companions?" During their tour of downtown earlier she had pointed out _Lorna's,_ and described it as the county's swankiest dress shop.

She nodded her head, her expression overly serious. "It's a town ordinance that a chair be provided for weary male companions to sit in while their women try on dresses."

"Well, if you think Estelle won't mind you wearing another dressmaker's creations and there is a chair for me to sit in, then I say we take a trip to _Lorna's_ right now."

She giggled nervously. "I need to clean up a bit first. If I go to _Lorna's _looking like this, the town's gossip grapevine will burn up."

"It only needs to make sense to us," he reminded her. "I think you look sweet."

She made a face at him and shook out her dusty, wrinkled skirt. "I look like a ragamuffin. I was all of eighteen the last time I wore this skirt."

"You don't look nearly eighteen all disheveled and freckled," Perry told her. "I feel as if I'll be committing a crime if I act on my current urges." He pulled back the gap he'd made in the burning bush hedge earlier and helped her through.

"I want ice cream. From _Dean's_," she announced as they walked hand-in-hand down the destroyed cobblestone path toward the sidewalk.

"One thing at a time, my dear. Dress first, then ice cream."

"I need shoes, too. And underwear." She didn't, but since she planned to allow him to pay, literally and figuratively, she might as well go all out.

"Now that's a shopping chore I don't mind participating in." He nudged her gently across the street and opened the driver's door of the Galaxie.

"Dirty old man." He helped her into the car and she moved over just enough for him to slide beneath the wheel. "You do understand that I'm still very upset with you for clapping your hand over my mouth." She laid her head on his shoulder as he started the engine.

"I understand."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to think that my forgiveness can be bought with underwear."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

It turned out that the actual price of Della's forgiveness was two dresses, a pair of three-inch open-toed black patent mules with a bow across the toe, three sets of silk underwear and stockings, and a double-dip chocolate chip ice cream cone from _Dean's_ on the river.

Perry hovered above Della and picked a helicopter from her hair. "Are you sure no one ever visits this place anymore?"

She stretched her arms over her head in a sensuously languid movement, arching her back as she did so. Her breasts brushed his bare chest and he sucked in his breath sharply. "I'm sure," she purred. "I have it on the best authority that the in vogue place for such clandestine activity is behind the new high school football stadium."

"Maybe we could investigate that location tomorrow," he suggested, dipping his head to move his mouth over her exquisite breasts.

Della sighed with sated delight. "I like this place. It holds wonderful memories."

Perry lifted his head with a frown. "That's hardly a nice thing to say after the performance I just gave."

Della's laughter pealed freely and easily into the warm twilight air. "Exactly," she said.

"That's better." He kissed her deeply for several satisfying seconds. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. "I'm perfect."

"Yes, you are, but I'm afraid a part of my anatomy is flagrantly exposed and becoming chilled. And I think there is a deer over there by the tree line giving us the stink-eye."

Della mewled a slight protest as he rolled away from her and sat up. He ran his hands through his hair and smiled down at her glorious body bathed in the clear blue light between sunset and dusk. "Bless whoever it was who left a blanket in the trunk of that beastly car."

She reached over and pulled a corner of the blanket up around his hips. "Better?"

"Better. I can't believe I'm saying this, because it must still be eighty degrees, but I'm shivering."

"The dew is settling," Della told him. "Feel the grass. The high humidity causes a heavy dew when the air cools."

Perry pushed his feet through the leg holes of his boxers, raised himself to his knees and pulled them up over his hips. "Is it always so hot here this time of year?"

"It's not the heat, darling, it's the humidity."

"Well, I'm here to tell you that I don't like the humidity." He handed her the scraps of lace he had so reverently removed earlier and watched while she re-hooked and repositioned everything. "You are beautiful," he said in awe.

She rose to her knees and leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her forehead against his. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry I made you come here. I promise you'll never have to come back again. We'll hire managers for everything and be silent partners from L.A."

"I think I might have to come back at least one more time. Propriety dictates."

Perry shook his head. "I already alluded to your father that you wouldn't be at his funeral."

She pulled back quickly and sought his eyes. "You didn't."

"I did."

She sat back down on her haunches. "Maybe you are my knight in shining armor," she said softly.

"I certainly hope so," he replied fervently. He tossed her skirt and blouse at her. "We should get back to the house. Everyone was a bit on edge when I left."

"You didn't hit anyone, did you?"

"No."

"Perry…"

"No, I did not hit anyone. I may have roughed up your father and Carter a bit, but I didn't technically hit either of them."

She sighed dramatically. "Our bags have probably been tossed to the curb. There is an auto court in the next town we might be able to still get into if we hurry."

"I think we'll be welcomed with open arms," he told her enigmatically. "Remember, it's your house now."

She finished buttoning her blouse with a reflective look on her face and stood to shake out her skirt, making him pause in his efforts to button his own shirt. "Carter won't welcome us."

"Carter is an idiot."

"He thinks he's been terribly wronged."

Perry stood, picked up the blanket and gave it a good shaking. "Are you afraid of your brother? I really think you could take him."

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm not afraid of him. I simply don't want him to talk to me ever again."

"You just may get your wish. Henny and your father have most likely convinced him that keeping quiet would be in his best interest."

"Henny? What does she have to do with anything?"

"Henny has a lot to do with everything." He folded the blanket and placed it back in the cavernous trunk of the Galaxie. "Carter is in love with her. And it's possible your father may be carrying a torch for her as well."

Della screwed up her face in disgust. "You didn't have to tell me that. I already guessed about Carter when Henny fainted. When did you become so astute in reading the signs of a possible romance?"

"A man just knows these things," he deadpanned.

* * *

The entire house was dark save for the front hallway and the parlor when Perry finally pulled the Galaxie into the driveway and urged the balky car up the incline. He held the driver's door open and Della slid to the ground next to him, affectionately tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they strolled leisurely toward the stately porch.

"Would you like to sit outside for a while?" Perry asked, his foot resting on the bottom step. "Cocktails on the veranda?"

Della shook her head. "Cocktails on the veranda didn't go so well earlier. A shower and a fan blasting directly on me is all I want right now."

"At the risk of offending your father, I think you need to be tucked in tonight. I'm quite adept at that particular activity."

"I recall that you are," she agreed readily. "Do you mind if I run right upstairs? I don't think I can face that rat bastard brother of mine if he's still awake."

"Hey," he protested, "I kiss that mouth."

They were at the door now. She slid her arms around his torso and rested her head on his chest. "You can make me angrier than any person on earth," she whispered, "but the depth of that anger isn't even close to how deeply happy you make me."

Perry held her close. "We still have a lot to face in the few days. I guarantee I'll make you angry again."

She pulled out of his embrace and stepped back. "Then just buy me another ice cream cone," she sassed.

She yanked open the door, peered inside the house to confirm the coast was clear, and sprinted through the hallway and up the stairs. He was still chuckling as he entered the house and closed the door. "She's fine," he said to Jameson Street, who emerged from the parlor, "considering what she's going through."

"That's good," Della's father replied. "I'm sorry my son took out his frustration on her."

"Is frustration what made you say what you said about her too? Neither one of you knows the least little thing about her and yet you judge her and find fault in her and demean her. How someone as decent as Della ever sprang from this dysfunctional environment is beyond me."

Perry tried to brush past Jameson Street but the older man grabbed his arm. "My mother and Mae are responsible for who she is," he said quietly. "Della may remember her childhood differently than I do, but I want you to know that while my mother was strict and blunt, she adored that girl and protected her from what could have harmed her."

"I don't believe you, Mr. Street," Perry said with steely coldness. "An adoring grandmother wouldn't have caused such pain. Della was desperately hurt by her childhood – so hurt she can't talk about it. She's a very intuitive woman. I rely on her instincts and trust her impressions of people and situations every day in my practice. She couldn't have misjudged her childhood as badly as you claim."

"I have proof if the fact my mother disinherited me and my son in favor of Della isn't enough to convince you. You're an attorney. Your clients live and die by proof, don't they? I'll get more proof for you."

Perry passed his hand over his face wearily. "You do that, Mr. Street. But not tonight. I'm going to put an impressive dent in your bourbon supply and then I'm going to take a shower. And then," he said pointedly, "I'm going to walk into your daughter's bedroom big as life and not leave until she's sleeping peacefully – if I leave at all."

Jameson Street swallowed hard. "Under normal circumstances I would run someone like you out of my house," he began, and paused as the absurdity of what he said registered and hid behind what he had always shielded himself with. "My mother wouldn't have stood for your behavior either."

"Well, then I'd say it's fortunate she's not here to witness what I intend to do tonight," he said coldly.

* * *

The decanter of bourbon was still on the dining room sideboard and he picked it up gratefully. The ice bucket contained partially melted cubes, but he was too exhausted and emotionally drawn to care. He splashed a healthy amount of the fine whiskey into a large squatty glass over the soft ice and drank heartily before replenishing the pour. He replaced the glass stopper and leaned against the sideboard. A fleeting thought passed through his mind that not a single piece of furniture in this God-forsaken house was constructed of anything but ornately carved mahogany. No wonder Della's decorating proclivities tended toward lighter, simpler furnishings.

"Carter really isn't as bad as you think, Mr. Mason."

Perry spun around and blinked. Henrietta Vander Velde was seated in the dark at the foot of the long table in Katherine Street's former place as hostess.

"He's had a terrible shock," Henny continued, her pretty voice soft, on the verge of tears. "He's worked very hard for years and for his grandmother to…it was an unexpected blow."

Perry sat down heavily at the head of the table and regarded her in the dim light across the expanse of highly polished wood. "I daresay it was a shock to everyone," he ventured carefully. "And I daresay Della received several terrible shocks today that far outweigh Carter's measly little shock."

Unbecoming red blotches appeared on Henny's undefined cheeks. "What will you advise Della to do with her grandmother's estate?" She sniffed audibly and dabbed daintily at the corner of one eye with a hanky.

"I can hardly discuss that with you, Miss Vander Velde."

Henny unfolded and re-folded the hanky with shaking fingers. "I guess I knew you would say that. Carter…he isn't a very spontaneous person, plus he's confused and upset at the moment. I know he'll eventually regret what he said to Della, but right now..."

Perry drained his drink and stood. He leaned his hands on the edge of the table and smiled kindly at Miss Henrietta Vander Velde. "How old are you, Henny?"

She wiped at her eyes again before answering. "That's hardly a proper question for a man to ask a woman, Mr. Mason," she said with a shaky little laugh. "I'm thirty-four."

"Did Carter say he'd marry you once the house or the mill was his?"

To her credit Henny managed to compose herself enough to give a firm answer. "Yes. We've been planning for nearly a year."

Perry lowered his eyes to the table top, then raised them to stare soberly at Henny Vander Velde. "You've been planning for a year what you would do when his grandmother died?"

Henny gasped at the import of his words. "No!" she cried. "That didn't come out right. You see, I took over running the house when it became too much for Grandmother Katherine because of her hip, and we spent a lot of time together talking. She told me that she would turn the house over to the person who deserved it; to the person she admired most in the family. We all thought Grandmother Katherine was going to give the house to Carter and split the business between Jameson and Carter. No one factored Della into the equation."

"If I were you, Henny, I'd choose my words more carefully." He stood straight and bowed slightly at the waist. "I would like to wish you and Carter every happiness."

"Thank you, Mr. Mason, but I'm afraid I can't accept your wishes. Carter told me this afternoon that we won't be getting married any time soon." Tears ran unchecked down her flat cheeks and dripped onto her white cotton blouse.

"Then may I make the observation that Carter is a bigger idiot than I originally thought." He bowed again and exited the dining room as Henny wept quietly in the dark.

* * *

The cool water of the shower invigorated him and chased away much of the fatigue that had assailed him instantly upon re-entering the house. He thought back to when Della had lain beneath him on a blanket in the middle of a meadow, her eyes dark with desire, her gasps and sighs of pleasure the most beautiful music he had ever heard, and he smiled. She had wanted their passion to 'just happen', and it certainly had. And he couldn't have been more pleased. He also couldn't wait to be out of this town and at the lake house, where anything could 'just happen' at any time and usually did. Now more than ever they needed time alone, if not to talk about the stunning revelations of the past few days, than to simply be free from their everyday life as well as the new path their life together had been forced onto.

He toweled himself dry and stepped into clean boxers The house was not air-conditioned and despite fans in the bedrooms, sleeping was not exactly comfortable during the unusual early summer heat wave. He suffered no embarrassment in walking from the bathroom to Della's room clad in only his drawers and so had left his robe in the room he had slept in the past two nights. It was late and everyone in the house was safely behind closed doors. Except for poor Henny, who for all he knew was still downstairs in the dark nursing her private misery, gathering strength to make the lonely drive home. He switched out the light and opened the door. And ran smack into Eve Wyman.

She gave an elaborately surprised feminine cry and pressed herself close to him, her fully made-up face tilted upward, lips parted. "Why Perry," she whispered sotto voce, "I didn't know anyone was in there. I'm still half-asleep."

Perry grasped her shoulders and set her away from him firmly. "Excuse me, Mrs. Wyman. I was a bit distracted myself."

"Perry, I've told you and told you to call me Eve," she scolded him with a smile. "I'm beginning to think you don't like me." Her smile became a tiny pout. "Don't you like me?"

"Whether or not I like you has no bearing on what I call you."

She cocked her head to the right and regarded him coyly, angling her body for the best view of her shamelessly displayed cleavage. "Does it make you uncomfortable that I'm Della's mother? It shouldn't, since she and I have never really met."

"I barely give that fact a passing thought, Mrs. Wyman. As far as I'm concerned, after what you did when Della was a baby and especially after what you did tonight, Della doesn't have a mother."

An irritated look swept across Eve Wyman's face before she regained her pout. "You've been talking with Jameson."

"It's neither here nor there who I've talked to."

"Still mysterious and deep, aren't you, Perry?"

"On the contrary, I believe I've made myself very clear. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Wyman, I have a promise to keep."

Eve Wyman didn't budge. She placed her hands flat on his bare chest and again raised her face toward his, fluttering preternaturally long lashes. "You aren't entertaining the thought of joining Della in her room, are you? I don't think I like that idea. And I know her father wouldn't be at all pleased."

"I've already discussed my plans with her father."

"Why are we standing in the bathroom doorway when my bedroom is just steps away?" Eve cooed, tacitly ignoring Perry's words. "We would be so much more comfortable in there. I have two fans, so my room is cooler than any other bedroom. We could have a very nice conversation and get to know one another better."

Perry placed his hands over hers and again removed them from his torso. "You are barking up the wrong tree, Mrs. Wyman. Della inherited her grandmother's estate, not I."

"While I admire your loyalty to Della, given the circumstances I find it difficult to believe a man like you can be completely satisfied with her. She's certainly lovely and it must be nice to have a girl so much younger than you at your beck and call, but she…"

"Mrs. Wyman," Perry interrupted in a hard voice, "I'll have you know that I am eminently satisfied and have no inclination to sample lesser offerings at this or any other time." He pushed past Della's stunned, furious mother and crossed the hall purposefully to Della's bedroom. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside, carefully closing and locking the door behind him.

"What took you so long?" Della's low sleepy voice floated to him from across the room.

Perry tip-toed to the edge of her bed and stood looking down at her lying on her side, propped up on several pillows. "I had to clear some garbage from the hallway," he said.

She pulled back the sheet and smiled up at him. "Come to bed, darling," she invited softly.

He lowered himself slowly to the mattress of Della's childhood bed and took her in his arms, hoping she couldn't tell how they shook. Her face was freshly scrubbed and he could almost taste her pale freckles as his lips roamed over cool, smooth skin.

"What's the matter, Perry? You're trembling. Don't tell me you took a cold shower." She pressed her soft body closer to his and wrapped her slender arms around him, shielding him from the breeze generated by the blade fan on the bedside table next to her.

He relaxed into her embrace, surrounded by her familiar scent, enveloped by the depth of her feelings for him. "It took a long time to get here tonight," he whispered against her lips.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Katherine Street's visitation on Sunday was scheduled from ten o'clock until one o'clock so that no one would have to miss church, and the evening session was scheduled from five o'clock until seven o'clock. Carter left early to pick up Henny, Jameson drove Eve, who everyone simultaneously realized at breakfast hadn't left to stay with Bitty Sherwood after all, and Perry drove Della to the funeral home. There was already a long line waiting patiently to sign the guest book, because having your name in the funereal guestbook of a Street still meant something in town.

Perry helped Della from the Galaxie and pulled her into his arms. "Aren't these the same people who stopped by the house Friday? Would you like me to stand with you while you greet them again?"

She leaned into him, sliding her arms around his middle. "No, but thank you for offering, darling. Will you be terribly bored sitting by yourself?"

"I'll have you to look at. I won't be bored."

Della wore one of the dresses purchased at _Lorna's_ the night before, a sleeveless daffodil yellow silk wiggle dress with a twist detail at the bust and cinched at the waist with a narrow patent leather belt. She'd accessorized with the gold dangle earrings and cat charm bracelet once again and looked calm and cool in the stifling heat.

He brought her hand to his lips, witnesses be damned. "Holler if you need me. I'm going to have a cigarette before I go inside."

* * *

Coffee provided by the funeral home, which was separated from _Rog and Bob's_ by a vacant building and a truncated street without a sign, was strong and hot. The last thing anyone needed was piping hot coffee, but Perry pushed the spigot on the twenty-gallon urn, refreshing his cup for the second time, and added cream and sugar before heading to the back of the room and retaking his seat on an overstuffed love seat. From the corner of his eye he saw a man break from the reception line positioned to the right of Katherine Street's bronze casket and limp purposefully toward him.

"Oliver Velting," the wiry little man announced, thrusting his hand out in front of him a full two feet away from Perry Mason. "I used to work at the mill, but I'm retired now and own the rock shop up the street a ways."

Perry set down his cup and saucer on a side table and extended his own hand. "Perry Mason. I'm a friend of a family member."

"You're with Della," the man said conversationally.

He nodded swiftly, his eyes searching her out in the crowd. "She's my secretary."

"Sure, whatever you say. I saw you two in the parking lot." Oliver Velting sat down in the chair next to Perry, his knees snapping loudly as he did so. "What do you need a secretary for?"

"I'm a criminal trial attorney."

Oliver Velting whistled, impressed. "Ever seen an execution?"

"I have, but fortunately none were my clients."

"You must be good."

Perry grunted in response. "How did you know Katherine Street?"

"Like I said, I worked at the mill for near forty years." He nodded toward Della, who was currently speaking with a very round woman dressed in an unflattering purple ruffled dress and large lavender picture hat. She appeared to be about Oliver Velting's age, which was near that of Jameson Street's, and appeared to be quite fond of Della. "Known that gal since she was a sprout. She got me interested in rocks."

Perry turned to actually look at the man, interest piqued. "She did? How?"

"Well, it was when my wife died. Mrs. Street brought the little gal with her on a condolence call. Had her all dolled up in a pink dress and shiny shoes, her hair pulled back with a bow. Prettiest little gal you ever did see. Big eyes and a head of curls all the women fussed over. She walked right up to me, couldn't have been more than six, and handed me a glass jar with a blue ribbon tied around it. She looked me square in the eye and said she was sorry about my wife and told me whenever I got sad about her I should look at them. I thought Mrs. Street was going to bust with pride."

Perry was fascinated by the man's story as a candid detail of Della and her grandmother was revealed that wasn't scandalous or cloaked in secrecy. "I can believe she was pretty as a child," he said with heartfelt honesty. "She's a remarkably beautiful woman."

"That she is," Oliver readily agreed. "You're a lucky man."

"Yes, Mr. Velting, I am."

"I took the wisest advice anyone gave me after my wife died and whenever I got sad, I looked at that jar of pretty stones. They were mostly rose and crystal quartz, moonstone feldspar, unakite, and granite flecked with mica, but to a kid they must have been miraculous."

"Pretty stones," Perry repeated quietly.

"I started travelling all over the United States, looking for semi-precious stones, agates and crystals, geodes and fossils, unakite and fractured basalt. You name it, I found it, and brought it home. Soon enough I couldn't park my car in the garage there were so many rocks. You should stop by the shop. I built one of them shadow boxes for that jar and hung it behind the counter for everyone to see. The ribbon is faded and tattered, but the stones are still the prettiest I have in the shop."

Perry extended his hand one more time to the man and shook his hand solemnly. "Mr. Velting, thank you for telling me about the pretty stones. I would be honored to stop by your shop."

Oliver Velting stood with more sharp snaps from his knees. "Dang arthritis," he complained good-naturedly. "Sure is noisy some days. I still get around all right though, for an old coot." He put his hand on Perry's shoulder briefly. "Take care of that gal."

* * *

"Did Ollie talk your ear off?" Perry looked up from studying his shoes into the florid face of the exceptionally round woman he had seen talking with Della earlier.

"It's still partially attached. Actually, I enjoyed talking to him immensely. Perry Mason." He indicated the chair next to the love seat and the woman sat down with a 'whoosh' and a groan.

"Della told me to come over here and keep you company," the woman said, fanning herself with a beribboned straw palm fan. "I'm Miss Roseanne. I was Della's ballet instructor."

Perry fought to keep his expression benign but friendly. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Roseanne."

"Did you know Della was my most naturally talented pupil ever? Of course you didn't, how could you?" Miss Rosanne gave a snorting laugh at her own silliness. "Katherine brought her to me when she was just shy of three because even at that young age she moved with unbelievable grace, almost as if she already thought out her every move and made them in the most attractive way possible. Katherine asked me to refine her movements. You could tell she was going to be tall and slender, and Katherine wanted her to continue to be comfortable with herself in case she grew exceptionally tall like her other grandmother, Marie Sherwood. Mae and Eve aren't so tall, but Katherine was one to think ahead, just in case."

"You are to be commended for your teaching, Miss Roseanne. Della is the personification of elegance and grace."

Miss Roseanne beamed. "She is, isn't she? I used to love watching her go through her steps at the barre. Her face was so serious, but beautifully serene. She was very flexible and really lost herself in the movements. I always gave her the lead in the group recital dances because no one else was half as good. Her grandmother sat in the front row and never took her eyes off of that girl."

Perry didn't have the heart to tell her how much Della disliked ballet, that the serenity on her face hid distaste and resentment and that she worked exceptionally hard at perfecting her movements in the hopes her grandmother might praise her.

"I'll let you in on a secret thought I've always had." Miss Roseanne lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Della probably should have taken tap dancing lessons. Her personality was much more suited to it than to ballet. But I didn't want to lose my best pupil or Katherine Street's support and approval. The fact her granddaughter attended my school brought in a lot of business from the entire county, and I've had a comfortable life because of it. Is it terrible that I was so selfish, Mr. Mason?"

* * *

Perry set his cup and saucer down on the tray stacked with dirty cups next to the coffee urn and checked his watch. Another five minutes and the first session of Katherine Street's visitation would be concluded. The last few straggling visitors were almost finished conveying their condolences and once they were escorted to the door, Perry would collect Della and go back to the house for lunch, and maybe he could convince her to take a nap before heading back to the funeral home for the evening visitation. She had slept poorly despite being physically and mentally drained, unable to get comfortable or to shut down her thoughts, which had kept him awake most of the night as well trying not to smother her with worry as he attempted to soothe her. And besides, it would be nice to divest her of the yellow dress and lie atop the covers as the fan blew cool air over their heated skin. His little talks with Oliver Velting and Miss Roseanne had given him unexpected glimpses into her childhood as well as of the grandmother she had loved but was so angry with, and the insights had charmed him anew. A pattern was becoming clear, a pattern he doubted she recognized when she was with her family and lost in emotions he could only guess at. He hoped he could present what he had learned to her in a way that wouldn't cause another argument, or heaven forbid another trip to the 'vangcant' lot. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared broodingly out the window at the hot, sunny day.

"Ready to leave?" Della spoke quietly at his elbow.

He looked down at her and his expression relaxed into a smile. "More than ready."

She curled her hands around his arm and squeezed. "You should have stayed at the house," she said sympathetically.

"And miss meeting Mr. Velting and Miss Roseanne, not to mention your third grade teacher and the group of giggling girls you ran with in high school? Not on your life, sister. Oh, by the way, we've been invited to a bar-b-que today at Gale and Francine's if we don't feel like eating at the house, and Annette Gibson had a baby boy late last night, unnamed as of this morning."

She smiled tiredly. "That's nice. She and Hal already have two girls. What do you want to do, Mr. Mason?"

He leaned down to her and nuzzled the curls beneath her ear. "It would be improper for me to tell you what I want to do while we're standing only four feet from the remains of your departed grandmother."

"Let's go back to the house," she requested wearily. "I think I'd like to take a nap. With you."

Perry grinned. "That was my plan exactly, but I had the decency not to mention it in front of your grandmother."

* * *

Perry and Della arrived at the house several minutes after the rest of the family, because Patsy Fadden, Della's friend since elementary school arrived exceptionally late on foot, not having been able to take a break from her job at _Skogmo's_ until five minutes prior. Bemoaning the little department store's new Sunday hours, Patsy alternately hugged Della and apologized for not being there sooner. Promising to be at the funeral even if she had to quit, she finally bade them farewell and headed back to work, cheerfully refusing a ride from Perry.

Everyone was in the dining room, picking at more cold fried chicken and a dill pickle potato salad, and hardly acknowledged their appearance. Henny silently handed Perry a large, thick manila envelope Emmett told him at the visitation he would drop off, and Perry set it in the middle of the table while he and Della ate, cognizant of the fact the others were eyeing it with barely disguised curiosity. When Della yawned, he abruptly pushed back his chair, scooped up the envelope, promised that he and Della would prepare and clean up dinner that evening, took Della by the elbow, and ushered her from the dining room.

She was so tired that after Perry pulled the zipper down on her new dress, she let it drop to the floor, stepped out of it and kicked it aside unconcernedly. She sat on the edge of the mattress, yawning, her head lolling against his shoulder while he helped her remove her shoes and stockings. He gently laid her down against the soft pile of pillows and quickly stripped to his boxers, then draped all of their clothes carefully over the backs of the slipper chairs, knowing she would be pleased. He reached beyond her already sleeping form and turned on the fan, and was immediately rewarded with a blessed breeze. Settling down on the mattress next to her, he spent the next few minutes watching her sleep until he nodded off as well, her small hand nestled in his.

* * *

Della stirred and stretched, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile as she became aware of the cool breeze from the fan blowing over her body. She opened one eye and found herself looking directly at a pair of men's blue silk boxer shorts. She sat up blinking in sleepy confusion for a moment.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Perry greeted her. He had slept for possibly thirty minutes, then awoken with a start, realizing that he had forgotten to open the envelope from Emmett Childers. Piling pillows behind his back, he had sat up and begun perusing the documents in the envelope, his ear tuned contentedly to her gentle breathing as he discovered surprise after surprise.

"How long have I been asleep?" She shook her head and fluffed flattened curls with her hand.

"A little over an hour and a half. I was only going to let you sleep for a couple of hours, so it's good you woke up on your own."

"Whatcha doing?" She slurred through a yawn while arranging pillows so she could sit upright comfortably alongside him.

"I am egregiously padding my billable hours in the probation of Katherine Street's estate." He passed a sheaf of papers covered with check marks to her. "This is the inventory Emmett took the other day."

Della shuffled through the papers quickly and gave a low whistle. "He works amazingly fast. Anything amiss? Have Father and Carter spirited away the silver?"

"There are several items unaccounted for. Emmett thinks a few pieces of furniture might actually be stored in the garage. He hasn't inventoried the outbuildings yet."

"And the other items?" She yawned again.

He hesitated. "He couldn't find two pieces of jewelry. A gold ruby starburst necklace and matching bracelet."

Della closed her eyes briefly. "Those are pieces of Grandma Esther's jewelry. Grandmother wore only pearls. I take it Emmett doesn't think he'll find the jewelry in the garage."

He reached over and placed his hand on her knee. "It'll turn up."

"Anything else of interest you'd like to tell me, Mr. Mason?"

"You know how I've been encouraging you to buy a car," he began.

"Incessantly nagging me, you mean?"

"Encouraging, nagging, same difference." He grinned when she snorted. "What would you say to driving home in a like-new dark green nineteen forty-one Packard Clipper? No more bus passes, no more taxi cabs…"

Della burst out laughing. "Grandmother's car! Oh, we could have fun in that thing. Even you could almost stand up in it."

He rubbed his jaw. "I haven't driven a 'three on a tree' in a while, but I guess I could pick it up again quickly enough."

"I'll be the only one driving that car," she declared. "Grandmother taught me to drive it when I was fifteen."

"Your hidden talents amaze me, Miss Street. First the piano, and now I find out you can drive a three on a tree transmission…will the revelations never stop?"

"Do I own the Buick, too?"

He shook his head. "No, that's in your father's name. And Carter's convertible is in his name."

She looked relieved. "Good. What are you going over now?"

"Bank statements."

"And?"

"Aaaaand, there is a lot of money."

"What do you mean by 'a lot'?"

"I mean 'a lot' in capital letters."

She pursed her lips. "Five figures or six?"

"Six."

She sucked in a quick breath. "I can buy a hell of a car with six figures. Low, mid, high?"

"Low-high."

She flung herself back against the pillows, her arm over her eyes. "Give it to me, I can take it."

"Roughly seven hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars." He rummaged around in the envelope and pulled out a stack of bills held together with a piece of knotted string. "Here's the seven thousand."

She moved her arm away from her face and stared at him. "Seven hundred thousand…" she took the packet of bills from him with trembling hands. "How did she…seven _**hundred**_ thousand dollars?"

Perry nodded. "It's squirreled away in several bank accounts, except for this stash of cash she kept stashed in her room. Della, the seven hundred thousand dollars is merely the liquid assets of the estate. Once you add the house and its contents, the mill...well, let's say I just took a nap with a millionaire."

Della's eyes were wide in her pale face as she stared at him. "And to think all these years everyone thought I was after _**your**_ money."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Knuckles rapped loudly on the bedroom door as Perry zipped up Della's dress. She buckled the patent leather belt around her waist and stepped into her shoes before gliding across the room and jerking open the door. Perry remained by the bed, gathering the estate paperwork and stuffing it back into the manila envelope, a sly, satisfied smile playing across his lips.

Carter stood on the other side, fist raised to knock again. He frowned at his half-sister. "Father wants to know if you're ready to go back to the funeral home."

"Dressed and ready to go," Della replied cheerfully. At least he'd had the courtesy to knock and not stand at the bottom of the stairs and holler at her as he had been wont to do most of her life.

Carter looked over her shoulder at the tumbled sheets on the bed and his frown deepened. "Have you no shame, Della?"

Della glanced back at Perry and matched his sly smile. "Apparently not," she said breezily. Carter moved aside as Della, followed by Perry, stepped into the hallway.

"Aren't you going to make the bed?"

Della reached back, grabbed the knob, and pulled the door shut. "Nope. It would be a waste of energy in this heat." She winked at Perry.

"You know how grandmother felt about unmade beds."

"I do. I've suffered from the same aversion, but I'm getting over it. Closing the bedroom door helps a lot. Tell me, Carter, how do _**you**_ feel about unmade beds?"

Carter cleared his throat, unable to muster a reply to her innuendo, his face a dark crimson.

"Good grief, Carter, I took a nap and Perry read some estate documents. Breathe already."

Perry hung back as Carter turned on his heel and headed toward the stairway in a flustered huff. "You left out a few details about our nap. I don't know if I can represent a dishonest client."

She grinned up at him. "I'm not sure Carter is acquainted with those particular details. I didn't want the poor man to faint."

"Do you honestly think your brother has never been kissed?"

"Not in the way I just kissed you."

"Smug little brat, aren't you?"

"Great big happy attorney, aren't you?"

Perry started to say something, thought better of it, and merely shook his head. "You look like such a lady."

Della took his hand in hers and led him toward the stairs. "Would you rather I looked like a lady or acted like a lady?"

At the top of the stairs he very deliberately pulled her into his arms and bent her backward with a flourish. "I like you sweet and salty," he whispered just before his lips met hers.

* * *

The stocky dark-haired man who had recently been hugging Della with tangent familiarity stepped out of the reception line and headed toward the corner where Perry had just concluded a delightful conversation with several members of the Ladies Garden Club about the beautiful tulip crop this past spring, and thrust out his hand to the attorney.

"Michael Domenico. First boyfriend."

Nonplussed, Perry accepted the younger man's handshake. "Perry Mason. Last boyfriend."

"You bought her a fur coat," he said with a slight accusatory edge to his voice.

"I believe I did."

The stocky man stared, sizing up the taller man for a few seconds. "I was a fool."

"I won't be."

The man nodded curtly, satisfied with the conversation thus far. "Did you ever meet Grandmother Katherine?"

"No, I never had the honor."

"It would have been an honor, despite anything Della may have told you. She wouldn't have liked you, though."

Perry raised his eyebrows, and caught sight of Della watching them like a hawk over Michael Domenico's shoulder. "Why would you say that? I'm likable enough."

"Likability wouldn't have mattered. You were the reason Della went back to and stayed in California. Grandmother Katherine wanted her here. Ergo, you automatically became her enemy."

"I take it Della's grandmother liked you?"

"She tolerated me because she knew I wasn't going anywhere. I was born here, and I'll be buried here, just like her."

Perry watched as Della threaded her way across the room toward them, a determined look on her face. "I'm not so certain Miranda was correct in her assessment," he said raising his voice slightly when she was still a few feet from them. Michael Domenico turned so that she could pass by him to stand next to Perry. She gripped his arm, the pressure of her fingers a firm reprimand of his observation.

"What assessment is that?" Michael inquired. When he had first entered the funeral parlor and seen her standing between her father and brother in the reception line his heart had literally somersaulted. He'd thought she was completely out of his system, but the sight of her, even lovelier and more poised than he remembered, brought back a flood of feelings shallowly buried at best. She had accepted his hug readily but had turned her cheek to his disappointed lips, her smile surprised and genuinely friendly, but nothing more. Then he had seen the big, dark man across the room, his piercing eyes focused and feasting on Della, and known immediately who he was and why the consoling kiss on the cheek would be the most she would allow him. The quickening of his heartbeat became a disappointed thud as he stood before them, the woman he had foolishly let get away, and the man she looked so perfect standing next to. His huge mistake had been the best thing that ever happened to her – that's what she'd told them in their last conversation – and the final, painful truth was right in front of him.

Della shot Perry a perturbed look as he fought to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up into a smile. "Nothing anyone needs to pay the slightest attention to," she replied briskly. "I trust you properly introduced yourselves and maintained a civil discourse."

"We behaved like perfect gentlemen." Michael assured her.

"The dignity and formality of the surroundings dictated that we reach a mutual understanding without bloodshed," Perry agreed.

"We're going fishing in the morning," Michael added, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back slightly on his heels.

"That's all we need, two stinky men in sweltering heat sitting among those genteel garden club ladies. You do realize Grandmother's funeral is at ten and that it's supposed to be the hottest day of the year tomorrow."

"I'm a pretty fair fisherman," Perry said, placing his hand over hers possessively, a movement that immediately caught Michael's attention. "We'll leave at sunrise and have our limit by eight-thirty. There will be plenty of time for a shower."

"Fresh fish might be a nice change from cold fried chicken," she replied, playing along momentarily, then dismissing the entire conversation with a wave of her free hand. "Put on your best lawyer face, Mr. Mason, and come meet the chief of police of this fair town."

"I've already met him," Michael offered by way of declining to accompany them. "Hell of a nice guy. We should invite him to go fishing with us."

Della looked up at Perry with a put-upon expression. "And to think I was actually glad he was back in the country."

* * *

Della inhaled tentatively and blew out a puff of smoke almost immediately. Cigarettes didn't taste good lately, and even though she really wanted it, she wasn't sure if she could tolerate it. For several months she had smoked pretty much only when Perry lit one for her, taking a puff or two then leaving it in the ashtray to burn down on its own. Perry was smoking less as well, and when they were alone together, especially at the lake, he hardly smoked at all. He told her he didn't need to smoke when they were together because the primary reasons he smoked – stress and boredom – didn't exist in her presence. Since arriving in this encapsulated town she had seen him smoke only three cigarettes, even though she knew he was feeling incredible stress as he threw himself in front of her to absorb the verbal and emotional blows her family directed at her.

She stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette morosely. This was her first since the night Eve Wyman crossed her threshold, and more than likely her last, for a while at least. It tasted awful, and burned lungs already overheated by the searing heat of the day. It also failed to do for her what she had hoped. She needed it to quell her stress, quiet her nerves, quash her boredom, and all it did was make her more stressed, more nervous, and more than willing to engage in inappropriate behavior to beat back the stifling boredom. She took another tiny puff and immediately coughed out the insignificant amount of smoke before it reached her lungs.

If anyone asked her how she could be bored at this particular time, she would be hard-pressed to explain herself. Perhaps boredom wasn't the proper word for her current state of emotions, she mused. It was more like apathy; a dull I-don't-give-a-damn-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here feeling, especially now that her grandmother was the proverbial six feet under. It made her weary, unfocused, and unable to think logically, and she had a lot to think about. She knew Perry, not a patient man by nature, was struggling mightily to be what she needed, to say what she needed to hear, and likely was one spat away from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her.

Her lips curled upward wistfully. _Perry_. He'd had good but misplaced intentions in bringing her here, and for all his accomplishments and worldliness, he was out of his element, his innate good sense and take charge demeanor woefully overwhelmed by emerging facts about her childhood, her family, and most shockingly, her womanliness. The secrets that had come to light, the exposure of how deeply damaged she was, mentally and physically, threatened all that they were, all that they hoped to be, and Della saw a fearful helplessness building in him, felt the same helplessness building within herself.

Tears pricked her eyes and she wondered how on earth her body could summon up any more moisture to expel. She felt desiccated from the inside out, her soul crumbling, her heart shriveled like a prune, all her energy directed at keeping it beating despite such constriction. Faced with a conglomeration of events and revelations that challenged sobriety and sanity, she longed to run away and think, to close in on herself and somehow find the strength to ferret out the secrets, the lies, the recriminations, the betrayals – and bury them deeply where they couldn't hurt her anymore. She had done a magnificent job hiding the truth of her upbringing from the world, and specifically from Perry, and the recent exposure of her scabbed over wounds was devastating.

She attempted another puff on the cigarette and managed not to cough, but there was no calming effect whatsoever so she exhaled with a defeated sigh and dropped it. As she savagely ground the cigarette into the grass with the heel of her new shoe, hands landed on her shoulders, kneading gently, consolingly. Della closed her watering eyes and let out a low moan, her own hands reaching up to halt the massage.

"That feels wonderful, darling," she said softly, "but…" her voice trailed off as her hands encountered not Perry's familiar long, strong fingers, but thicker, blunt fingers she had nearly forgotten. "Michael!"

Michael Domenico, dressed in dark slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt, his striped tie undone, his short dark hair crisp despite the muggy heat of mid-day, dragged a metal shell-backed patio chair, a twin to Della's chair, across the grass and dropped into it. "I'm sorry, Del," he said contritely. "You looked tense with your shoulders hunched up like that. Although I must admit I enjoyed being called 'darling' again."

Della rolled her shoulders as if to rid herself of his touch, and Michael flinched. "I doubt very seriously I ever called you darling. Honey _**maybe**_, once or twice. What are you doing out here?"

"I came to ask you the same thing. I know you like sitting under this weeping willow, but it's hotter than Billy-be-damned out here, Del."

She shrugged again. "It's not so bad in the shade." And it really wasn't. What little breeze there was made the thin pale leaves of the willow whisper comfortingly above her and cooled her heated skin.

Michael leaned forward and placed his hand over hers. "It's not so good, either."

"It's better than in there." She jerked her head back toward the house. "I can't play the part of the grieving granddaughter any longer. I'm not that good of an actress. Especially now that the funeral is over and I have to deal with all of her dirty laundry."

Michael slowly withdrew his hand and sat back. "It was a nice funeral. I liked the scriptures you selected." He cleared his throat. "About that dirty laundry…Miranda told me you found out about Tony."

Della was too tired to be angry with him for not telling her about Tony. She tried, but her weariness just wouldn't allow it. "He's Teresa's son?" Teresa was Michael's oldest sister, separated by eight years, a brother named Vincent, and a sister named Penny. Tony was twenty-one, which meant Teresa was only sixteen when she gave birth to him. And Lawrence Allensworth would have been…old enough and married enough to know better. Anger failed her, but nausea clenched at her stomach.

Michael nodded. "I only found out myself when I was twelve. It must have been quite an undertaking keeping it a secret at the time. I certainly don't remember anything out of the ordinary about that time."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Della disagreed dryly. "A lot of people managed to keep a plethora of secrets from me without much trouble. Does Tony know?"

"He says he's always known. He doesn't care. He's quite a kid." Michael shifted in the chair. "Speaking of secrets, I know about your real name. For the record, you are definitely a Della and not a Maeve."

A tiny bit of anger surfaced and she was secretly pleased to actually feel something other than numbly apathetic. "Bastard."

He held up his hands in defense. "Miranda told me only a little while ago."

Her anger evaporated and all she felt again was slight nausea. It might be the heat. Or the thought of Lawrence Allensworth and Teresa Domenico…but most likely it was the man-sized pour of bourbon she'd swigged right before wandering out into the back yard. She wasn't quite certain. "What else did Miss Allensworth tell you?"

"She told me Grandmother Katherine left you everything, that she changed your name, and that you know about Tony. That's all."

"That's _**all**_? My oldest friend kept secrets for twenty-five years but suddenly she can't shut up. And you! How could you not tell me about Tony considering how close he was to Danny?" She hoped Michael was telling the truth and that Miranda hadn't told him about her mother's startling revelation. Pity from Michael was the last thing she wanted.

Michael leaned back in the chair and the metal swayed beneath his weight. "The best thing you ever did was leave," he said unexpectedly instead of answering her directly.

"Yes," she agreed a bit listlessly, gazing past him toward her grandmother's flower garden. The gladiola were nearly in full bloom. She must have planted early this spring.

"He's not what I expected."

"He's not what I expected, either."

"I think I'm getting married."

Della snapped her eyes back to his. "What?"

Michael leaned forward again, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands beneath his chin. "Amy and I…we – we've been seeing each other again since she came back from California. Her family travelled to England with my family and she came back early with me when we heard about Grandmother Katherine."

"Oh." That was something else the loquacious-of-late Miss Allensworth had failed to tell her.

Michael lowered his eyes to the ground. "I know what I did – what Amy and I did – hurt you, Del. I listened when all the wrong people gave me all the wrong advice. You were spirited and gregarious and you wanted more than I could give. You made me mad and I got stupid."

"We were very young," Della said very quietly.

Michael shook his head. "Don't offer any excuses for me, Della. I don't deserve to be excused. And you didn't deserve to be treated that way…but it was what I knew, what I had seen my father do to my mother, what I knew Lawrence Allensworth did to his wife, and what Garrett Kirby did to your aunt. I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

Della flashed a weakly wicked smile. "Is marrying Amy a form of self-flagellation?"

Michael regarded her seriously, his blue eyes steady and clear. "Possibly."

Della impulsively flung her arms around him, those blasted tears threatening again. "Oh Michael, one mistake saved us from a miserable life. Don't make another mistake trying to correct the first mistake that really doesn't need to be corrected."

Michael unclasped his hands and hugged her to him, sliding forward in the chair. "I know you're happy with him, Del. In all honesty, I believe I can be happy with Amy. We deserve each other."

"Marry her because you love her," Della chided gently.

"I do. We'll be okay. I certainly won't cheat again." He rubbed her back. He did love Amy, but it was a love that had known a different love before it, a love unfulfilled, and therefore lacked what it was about Della that set his heart racing whenever he saw her. "Would you come to our wedding if we invite you? You can bring that big lug attorney of yours."

Della rubbed her nose on Michael's shirt and he held her away from him with a stern glower. She ran her hand beneath her nose to finish the job. "Michael, once I figure out what I'm going to do with everything Grandmother dumped on me, Perry and I are going away. And we're never coming back."

"Do you hate it here that much?"

"It's not a healthy place for me. I lose sight of who I am and what's important when I'm here. Perry is about ready to strangle me."

"I find that highly unlikely. The way he looks at you makes me blush. As a matter of fact, he's been standing in the doorway of the porch watching us for the past couple of minutes. Don't turn around!" Michael planted a kiss on her forehead and stood. "Good-bye, Del. Amy is waiting for me."

"I like you, Michael. Be happy."

"I like _**you**_, Del. You will forever be the one that got away."

Michael patted her shoulder and then headed back toward the porch, where Perry Mason indeed was leaning against the door jamb, the screen door propped open with his foot, arms crossed over his chest.

"She's all yours," Michael announced, stopping at the base of the stairs.

Perry stepped aside and held the door open so the stocky man could pass through. "There was never a doubt."

"Then why have you been standing here watching us? I won't threaten you because I suspect you could wipe the floor with me with relative ease, so I'll merely advise you to take care of her."

"If she'll let me."

Michael Domenico burst into laughter. "Her independence – that's pure Katherine Street. I see a lot of her grandmother in Della. And this _**is**_ a threat: don't you ever tell her I said that." With a cocky salute, he moved past Perry and disappeared into the house.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Perry seated himself in the chair recently occupied by Michael Domenico before Della spoke, her voice soft and sad. "All you wanted was a secretary." She sighed in deep lament. "You didn't bargain for any of this when you hired me."

"This isn't so bad. You got Bart in the deal."

Della smiled in spite of the awful sadness creeping over her. "Your brother is a pussycat. This," she waved her hand over the expanse of lawn surrounding them, "this is a mess…I'm a mess."

Perry's eyebrows drew together in a frown. "First, I cannot believe you just called Bart a _**pussycat**__._ Second, I specialize in messes. Let me clean up this mess."

"Including me?"

"You are not a mess. Please don't say that. But you're right – I didn't bargain for this. I didn't know how my life was going to play out when you walked through my door, but I recognized immediately that you were remarkable and I had never wanted anything more than I wanted you. First as my secretary, then as my friend, and very quickly as much more." He rested his hand on her knee. "I am amazed by you, even more so now that I know where you came from. I finally understand why your first inclination is to run away from what hurts you. I don't like it, but I understand. I just wish you would trust me."

"I do trust you," she whispered.

He shook his head, his mouth almost grim, lips pressed together in a firm line. "Not completely. You don't trust me with anything painful. And you didn't trust me with any of this." It was his turn to wave at their surroundings.

"You didn't trust me with details of your family, either," she reminded him, defensively sullen.

"Not at first," he agreed readily. "But is there anything you don't know now? Is there anything you think I haven't told you since that first Christmas we spent with Bart and Valerie – after you came back from here, crushed and vulnerable?"

"I was not crushed, and I certainly wasn't vulnerable. Well, maybe vulnerable to your charms. Hence my early return."

"Don't attempt to sidetrack me because you know I'm about to make you angry. I've apologized ad nauseum for bringing you here, but if truth be told, I'm really only sorry for what being here has done to you, not for actually physically bringing you here. You've told me virtually nothing about your life before you moved to California and I needed to come here to find out why. It was selfish of me but I had to know."

He was right – he had made her angry. Della's posture remained stiff and aloof. "Have the experiments with my well-being been successful in your estimation, Mr. Mason?"

"Not entirely. I don't like seeing you in such emotional pain. I thought I could help."

"You do help. I would be curled in a ball and sucking my thumb if not for you."

His fingers gently stroked her silk-clad knee. "We haven't really talked about everything." He thought back to their conversation in Danny's 'vangcant' lot, loose ends left dangling between them that she hadn't been capable of facing then, either.

"I don't want to talk about everything right now, okay?"

Perry pulled his hand from her knee and ran his hand through his hair in barely contained frustration. "Damn it, Della, stop running away from me. What you say and what you do don't match up. You say you trust me, then you shut the door in my face. When are you going to realize that what affects you affects me?"

"I need time to think," she told him, and a soft sob escaped. Damn her uncontrollable tears! "I need to come to terms with…with what…with…this is what I do, Perry, this is how I survived living here. I can't talk to you before I sort it all out for myself."

Perry heaved himself out of the chair and walked a few paces to the trunk of the willow tree and leaned against it, his back to her. He couldn't look at her or heaven forbid, he would cry himself. "I'm asking you to just once talk to me without overthinking and planning every word."

"I…I wouldn't know what to say. I have to think."

Perry closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. "Say what you feel, Della. No thinking. Just blurt it out."

"I don't particularly like you right now. How's that?"

He dropped his head in surrender, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Do you ever really listen to me? I'm beginning to think you push what I say to the background while you plot your clever comebacks. Frankly, it pisses me off."

Della bit back another sob. "Well, at least one of us has mastered the art of blurting."

Perry spun to face her and stood with his legs apart, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were dark with emotion, his complexion ruddy from the effort of keeping a lid on his frustration. "Stop making jokes," he said in a very low, controlled, deliberate manner.

She nearly recoiled from his aggressive stance, one she had seen him assume many times in difficult situations when he thought he might have to spring into quick action. Never in her life had she imagined he would strike that pose with her. "It wasn't a joke. I thought I was stating the obvious."

Perry stared at her, eyes still dark with tumultuous emotion, his expression hard and unreadable. He moved past her, heading back to the house. "Jim Brandis finally called back," he tossed at her over his shoulder, not breaking stride. "As it happens, his cousin practices estate law near here. He's agreed to see us tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."

Della sucked in a quaking breath and her hands shook as she pushed damp hair off of her forehead. "I'm not enough for you."

Perry came to a halt and slowly turned to look back at where she sat beneath the weeping willow tree, arms wrapped around her slender body, knees clenched tightly together as she stared down at the parched grass at her feet. "What did you say?"

"I'm not enough for you," she repeated tearfully. "That's what I would say without thinking." She unfolded her arms and buried her face in her hands as sobs finally overtook her.

It had taken Perry many steps to reach the screened-in back porch, but only three long running strides to arrive back at her side. He knelt and removed her hands from her face. "You're more than enough for me, Della. You're so much more than I thought I would ever have."

She tried to pull away from him, but his fingers held her forearms like vices. "I know," she sobbed. "I know better than to think anything like that, but I do and I can't help it, and I don't want you to know the silly thoughts I have…" her words, fast and furious, faded to silence as she leaned into him. "I have to deal with thoughts like that in my own way, in my own time. They're wrong and I'm fully aware of it and it wouldn't do any good to hash them out because I already know all the logical arguments against them. Let me do this my way, Perry, please. I have a lot to cope with, and I will, but I need you to back off while I do."

He splayed one hand over the back of her head and held her firmly against him, smiling briefly when she wiped her nose on his shirt as he'd watched her do to Michael Domenico. The past few days aside, she rarely cried, and seeing her like this tore at his soul. "I'd like to make a deal," he said softly into her hair.

She sniffed and clutched his shirtfront in her hands, hopelessly wrinkling the tear-stained fabric. "Plead your case, Counselor."

"I'll back off now if every once in a while you'll blurt something out to me, no matter how silly or illogical you think it might be. I don't like being shut out, Della."

She pushed herself upright but left her palms flat against his chest, trying vainly to smooth out the ruination of his shirt. "Can you accept an 'I'll try' as my part of the deal?"

His lips, cool against her flushed skin, roamed across her forehead, down her nose and over her left cheekbone. "That's a fair compromise. I accept without countering."

She sniffed again. "How shall we seal this deal, Mr. Mason?"

He broke into an impishly dimpled grin. "With an ice cream cone?"

Della grinned right back at him through her tears. "I like how your mind works. But first I need to run into _Skogmo's_. If we have an appointment with an attorney tomorrow, I'll need something to wear. I'm afraid this infernal heat wave doesn't make it possible to wear anything more than once. My dress could probably stand up by itself." She smoothed her hands down the full skirt of the green dress he had selected for her himself. The caged bateau neckline created by a netting of delicate peridot cord exposed her exquisite collarbone, and the cap sleeves flattered her long, slim arms. The waist nipped in and was adorned with a small bow mimicked by the bow across the toe of her patent pump. The color had raised a few eyebrows at the funeral, as had the deep yellow dress she'd worn for the visitations, but the design and cut of the dresses were impeccable and she wore them confidently, propriety taking a back seat to comfort and function.

Perry rose to his feet and pulled her up with him. "Don't you have anything else in the closet from when you were eighteen? I liked the skirt with the daisies on it."

She gave him a horrified look. "There is a black organdy dress that was attacked by ruffles, a poodle skirt, and a pair of saddle shoes."

He circled her shoulders with his arm and steered her toward the house. "A poodle skirt huh? Pink felt?"

"Of course."

"Maybe you should bring that home with you," he suggested, overly casual. "And the saddle shoes, too."

She snickered and slid her arm around his waist. Lord, he could be such a naughty little boy at times.

* * *

After changing from his dress slacks and pitifully tear-stained, wrinkled pin-striped shirt into chinos and a collared golf shirt, Perry met Della on the front porch where she was surrounded by the ladies of Katherine Street's garden club, all of whom were dressed in floaty flowered dresses and a veritable rainbow of pastel organza Kentucky Derby sun hats. Offering their most heart-felt apologies for abandoning the wake, they scurried to the Galaxie and made their escape. Della slid over to the center of the seat and threaded her arm through Perry's.

"Do you think it would be horrible if we came back here for Michael's wedding and not for my father's funeral?"

Perry raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Michael is getting married? Do you really want to attend the wedding of an ex-boyfriend?"

"One day you're actually going to give me a direct answer to a question and I'll die from the shock." She laid her head on his shoulder, thinking over his question to her question. "I guess not. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to bless the union of the man who cheated on me with my best friend. Especially since it's her he's marrying."

"Good Lord, Della, I treated that man like a long-lost brother trying to show you what an upstanding gentleman I can be. This is exactly the type of thing I wish you would have told me."

She hadn't told him about Michael except for the fact he existed and she most definitely wasn't going to elaborate now. How could she ever admit that she had promised to marry Michael and worn his ring for nearly a year? "Like how you told me about Ellen?" she asked archly, knowing he would immediately change this dangerous subject.

"Would you look at this – we have a traffic jam. Three cars at the four-way stop at the same time."

Della smiled and settled back against the seat contentedly.

Perry allowed the other two cars to pass through the intersection before turning onto Sherwood Street and continuing to where it emptied onto Allegan Street. There was a small amount of traffic downtown and Perry had to wait for several cars to pass before spinning the wheel of the car in a perfectly executed U-turn and pulling into a parking space directly in front of the town's little department store. He shut off the engine, opened the car door, stepped to the curb, and offered his hand to her. She slid across the seat, making a face as her skirt hitched up toward her thighs. Perry immediately lowered his eyes to take in the sight. He cupped her elbow and escorted her to the glass door and stood aside for her to enter ahead of him.

She hurried down the center aisle to a rack of cotton sundresses positioned across from the checkout counter, her hands sorting through the different patterns and sizes swiftly. "These will do," she decided, almost muttering to herself. "I'll need shoes, too. And maybe a pair of capri pants, if they have any."

A short, plump woman with an enormous bosom approached tentatively and Della greeted her with a pleased smile, turning to introduce her to Perry as Thelma Fadden, Patsy's aunt. As Della listed the items she needed, and Thelma listened intently, Perry wandered over to the display window and peered between mannequins outfitted in floaty flowered dresses and assorted organza sunhats to the street outside. The rock shop across the street caught his eye and he made his way back to the middle of the store where Thelma was showing Della a variety of loosely knit cardigan sweaters – sweaters! – and touched her arm lightly.

"The rock shop across the street is open," he told her. "I'm going to visit with Mr. Velting for a few minutes."

Della nodded absently as Thelma pulled a delicate cream-colored cardigan from the cabinet below the display table and laid it against one of the sundresses she had selected. "Take all the time you want, Chief."

Perry remained standing beside her for a few seconds, watching her, amused by her use of his office nickname. Although her attention had been corralled by her shopping chore, she still had the presence not to call him 'darling' in public. Ordinarily he didn't mind shopping with Della because of her no-nonsense, efficient approach to the activity, not to mention the fact he enjoyed when she modeled potential ensembles for him, but today he didn't feel as if she particularly cared for his input. On his way out of the store he stopped by the check-out counter, pulled his money clip from his pocket and peeled off several bills. "This is for whatever she decides to buy," he told the girl behind the counter, handing them to her. "Don't let her argue."

She looked at the bills, to him, and back to the bills. She gulped. "Yes sir."

He exited the store, dodging a few more cars as he crossed the street to Oliver Velting's rock shop, and was surprised to find several people milling about inside, bending over glass display cases admiring the fossils and geodes and crystals displayed within. Oliver Velting himself was at the back of the store behind a tall wooden counter, making change and placing a crystal formation in a cardboard box for another customer. Perry was more curious about the box than the rock, as he now knew cardboard was responsible for the roughly seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars in Katherine Street's bank accounts. Oliver Velting's tanned, lined face lit up as he recognized Perry Mason.

"Why if it isn't the lawyer from Los Angeles! Glad you could make it in, Mr. Mason."

Perry took the man's proffered hand in a hearty handshake. "So am I, Mr. Velting. Della is dress shopping across the street and I was in the way." He scanned the shop approvingly. "Quite a place you have here."

Oliver Velting stood up straighter, prouder. "Thank you, Mr. Mason. It'll do. Can I show you around?"

Perry shook his head, and as he did so, a square wooden box mounted on the wall behind the wiry owner of the shop caught his eye. Set in relief against the darkly stained wood was a canning jar, its pitted, tarnished lid wrapped with a tattered blue ribbon, filled with stones ranging in size from peas to marbles. Della's pretty stones. He very much liked knowing something about her childhood she didn't know he knew. "I came to ask you a favor, Mr. Velting. I hope you can help me with something."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Perry very quickly outlined what he wanted on a pad of paper Oliver Velting produced from beneath the counter. The older man's leathery face split into a wide grin as the attorney's intent became clear, and he nodded with approving understanding when Perry finished scribbling and tore the sheet from the pad and handed it to him.

"I know what I'm asking is out of the ordinary, but it will mean a lot to Della. I hope we'll be leaving Friday morning," he said apologetically.

"Not a problem, Mr. Mason. I'll have it ready Thursday afternoon, you can count on it. My son will help me."

"Thank you, Mr. Velting."

The permanent crinkles around Oliver Velting's eyes deepened. "It's the least I can do for the little gal who gave me this." He reached up and removed the jar from its place of honor in the shadow box and set it on the counter in front of Perry Mason. "Without this, I might not have discovered my love of rocks. And I sure as shootin' wouldn't have survived grieving for Bernice."

Perry picked up the jar carefully and spun it slowly in his hands. The stones shifted and made comforting clinking noises against the glass. Although they were small, the stones were indeed pretty as they tumbled, and he was once more amazed by the woman who as a child had been wise enough to recognize the mesmerizing power of these stones, had harnessed that power, and with a pure heart had shared the power.

He handed the jar back to Oliver carefully and the older man replaced it in the shadow box just as a customer walked up behind Perry holding an impressive set of bookends made from an enormous geode cut in half and he wandered away from the counter to inspect the treasures Oliver Velting had brought back from his travels. Thirty minutes later he was back at the counter talking to the shop owner and another former mill employee when Della entered carrying several large bags and wearing a very becoming straw sun hat with a trailing scarf, and large dark sunglasses. She stood in the doorway for a moment while her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the ambient lighting inside, and smiled when she saw the three men standing at the counter, hands in pockets jangling whatever it was men kept in their pockets that jangled, relaxed and enjoying their conversation. All three men watched her approach, each with a different kind of smile on their lips.

"Mr. Velting, Mr. Wexler," she greeted the two older men respectfully. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Hotter than you-know-what, but since I'm upright and breathing, I'll take it," Oliver Velting responded. "Sorry I missed your grandma's funeral. Had an appointment this morning."

"Mr. Velting, don't apologize. It was greatly appreciated that you came to the visitation." She sidled up next to Perry and held something out to him.

Perry looked down at what was in her hand and then at her face, her expression partially obstructed by the brim of her outrageous new hat and unreadable behind the lenses of the sunglasses. Without a word he took the five bills he had given to the check-out girl at _Skogmo's_ and returned them to his money clip.

"The argument ended when it became clear I would walk out without buying anything," she explained. "They work partially on commission at _Skogmo's._"

Recognizing a brewing storm between the lawyer and his secretary, Oliver Velting and Jerry Wexler shuffled unobtrusively down to the end of the counter, leaving Perry and Della by themselves.

"I didn't know if they would take an out of town check from you."

"Perry, Miranda has shot off her mouth all over town. There isn't a soul over the age of five who doesn't know Grandmother left everything to me. I think my check would be accepted just about anywhere within a hundred-mile radius."

"You let me pay at _Lorna's_," he pointed out.

"That's because I ran away without my purse. And I was mad at you." She smiled briefly. "You didn't like it when I blurted then."

He was highly amused with her, despite his vexation at her inbred stubbornness. "Even blurting has its place."

She pursed her lips and spun to the two gentlemen standing at the other end of the counter. "It was very nice seeing you…" her words trailed off. She pulled the large sunglasses partially down her nose to get a better look at something that had caught her eye. She abruptly pushed the sunglasses back into place and smoothly carried on. "Your shop is marvelous, Mr. Velting. I wish we didn't have to run off, but Perry and I have a lot to do before we leave for California."

Oliver Velting winked at Perry Mason. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, missy," he said with sincerity, genuinely enjoying her surprise at seeing the jar of pretty stones so prominently displayed.

Perry relieved Della of most of her bags and bade the two older men good-bye as she led the way out of the rock shop. As they crossed the street to the Galaxie, passing cars tooted their horns and Della waved. She stood next to the car as Perry opened the trunk and placed her bags inside, fanning herself with a beribboned straw palm fan pulled from the depths of one of the shopping bags. Even dressed in clothes purchased in this town she stood out as different, and Perry couldn't help but notice how every person who passed by, male or female, gave her an admiring look.

"I don't want ice cream," she announced. "It's really too hot. I'd like a drink instead."

Perry shut the trunk and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. "All right. I wondered why you hustled us out of Mr. Velting's shop. Where would you like this drink?"

She nodded up the street. "There are only two choices: Peter Stanton's place or the Elks Club. You aren't an Elk and I don't want to face Miranda right now, so I think I'd prefer to go back to the house." She laughed at the exaggerated expression of disbelief on his face. "I know. I'm as surprised as you are. There is plenty of fresh lemonade and Father has some vodka stashed in a kitchen cabinet with all the other booze he doesn't keep in decanters. Doesn't that sound good?"

"Drinking lemonade spiked with vodka under the weeping willow with a beautiful lady? How can I say no to that?" He moved around the back of the car and opened the driver's door for her. She laid her hand on his arm briefly before ducking her head and gracefully seating herself behind the steering wheel and sliding over so he could climb in.

Perry started the car and pulled away from the curb. Della took off the sun hat and tossed it into the back seat. "Mr. Velting's shop certainly is interesting," she commented offhandedly.

Perry turned on the blinker at the intersection of Allegan and Sherwood and waited while several cars passed them in the opposing lane. "Yes, it certainly is. I'm afraid I lost track of time looking at everything."

"I probably should have looked around a bit, but…"

"But you saw your pretty stones," he interrupted, "and it surprised you."

She yanked off her sunglasses and looked at him, eyes narrowed. "What do you know about my pretty stones?"

Traffic cleared and he was finally able to make the left-hand turn onto Sherwood Street. "Is there a street in town named after your family?"

"Street Street? That's a bit ridiculous, isn't it? Answer me, what do you know about my pretty stones?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Street Avenue, or Street Boulevard."

"This town isn't big enough to have an avenue or a boulevard. Perry, tell me what you know about my pretty stones"

He reached over, plucked her hand from where it rested in her lap, and brought it to his lips. "Mr. Velting told me how a little gal with big eyes and a head of curls handed him a jar of stones so he wouldn't be sad about his wife. He took the innocent advice of a child and it helped him. How did you know to do that? He said you were all of six."

She cast her eyes downward and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. "I don't remember much about when I was six."

"Della, don't fib. Mr. Velting told me a story that would make a grown man cry and it's all because you did something astounding as a child. You should be very proud of yourself."

She raised her head and stared straight ahead out the windshield as she began to speak haltingly. "I – I found them at the lake when I was five. Father rented a cottage and we stayed for two weeks every summer. I spent hours and hours sitting in the water where piles of stones had washed up, picking out the prettiest ones and putting them in an old wooden box. The day we were to leave, Father said he wouldn't allow me to haul a dirty box of rocks home and I cried and cried when he dumped them onto the ground and threw the box into the garbage. June yelled at him, I mean really yelled at him, and he yelled right back at her. I'd never heard either of them yell like that." She gave a slight shudder. "It was awful. I laid down on the grass and sobbed pitifully. June and Father went into the cottage and I could still hear them yelling at one another."

"Oh baby," he breathed, at once thrilled that she was telling him something about her childhood and devastated by the painful memory.

She took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. "I remember laying there in the grass crying and trying to gather my stones, when suddenly Grandmother was there, on her knees, helping me. She had rescued the box from the trash and scrubbed it clean. For over an hour we crawled through the grass looking for all my stones and putting them back in the box." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears yet again. "That's when I knew my stones were magical and I thought they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. When we got home she gave me six canning jars and I divided the stones between them. I tied my hair ribbons around the lids – that made Grandmother mad – and hid the jars in my closet in that wooden box. At Christmas I gave the jars as gifts to June, Grandmother, Grandma Bitty and Aunt Mae."

"And then Mr. Velting's wife died," he prompted when she paused.

Della nodded. "Mrs. Velting was in the garden club with Grandmother and Mr. Velting worked at the mill so I had known them all of my little life. Mr. Velting was very sad, and I asked Grandmother if I could give him a jar so he would smile again."

"Mr. Velting said your grandmother nearly busted her corset laces she was so proud of you."

Della laughed and wiped her eyes. "That sounds like Mr. Velting."

"Well, I admit I added the part about busting corset laces, but that's the gist of what he told me." He braked the car at the four-way stop and turned to look at her briefly. "So you do have a good memory of your grandmother."

She was quiet as a single car passed through the intersection and didn't speak until Perry completed the turn onto Morrell Street toward her childhood home. "I guess I do," she admitted with a hint of wonder, as if she had never considered the events surrounding her pretty stones to be anything but traumatic.

"Where is the sixth jar?"

"Huh?"

"The sixth jar. Where is it? You only gave five away."

"It broke when I was twelve."

"Oh." He turned the car onto the inclined driveway of the Street estate and was glad to see only Jameson's Buick Riviera, Carter's Chevy Belair, and Henny's ancient Ford Custom Coupe parked in front of the house. The wake was officially over.

"You sound disappointed."

He pulled the Galaxie up behind Carter's aqua and white Belair convertible and killed the engine. "I am. I was hoping you would give the sixth jar to me if you still had it. How did it break?"

"I threw it against the wall."

"Della! Why did you do that?"

"Because the magic was gone."

Perry turned in the seat to face her. She was sitting ramrod straight as far away from him as she could get, still staring out the windshield, refusing to look at him. Her tears had evaporated and the muscles along her finely sculpted jawline were tense. Perry knew instantly why she had thought the magic had worn off her stones. "You were saving it for _**her**_, weren't you? The sixth jar was for your mother."

"Yes." The single word was heart-wrenching, somewhere between a sob and a whisper.

"But she never came home." Perry didn't think he had ever felt hate for a person as much as he felt for Della's mother. He realized he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough to snap it and relaxed his fingers a bit. "Such a gift," he muttered.

"What?"

"Take the money, Della. Take it, and take the mill, the house, the furniture, the jewelry…take _**everything.**_ Take it and liquidate it and be done with these people and this town. Not one of them is worthy of a kind thought or backward glance from you, least of all your mother, and it would serve them right to lose what they assumed would be theirs."

All the tenseness in Della's face drained away and she regarded him with shining, tender eyes. "Well, we know what the man who loves me thinks. Let's hear from my attorney next."

Perry drew in a huge breath and expelled it slowly. This woman beside him, this intelligent, sometimes inappropriately funny, infuriatingly independent, warm-hearted, monumentally strong woman he couldn't imagine not loving, had lived among people unable to give her love and yet she had somehow managed to conquer them all. As her lover he wanted her to hit them where it hurt most, spit on them, and return to California without a single regretful thought. He should have listened to her – this was a terrible place – and today he wasn't sure anything he had learned about her was worth the pain and anxiety she had suffered. How had a little cocoon named _**Maeve**_ living among such repression and destined to become…well, Miranda Allensworth… become instead the beautiful butterfly that was _**Della**_?

"I do love you," he said quietly.

"I know you do."

They stared at one another for long seconds, each totally absorbed in the other's eyes, knowing that even if Perry sometimes spoke harshly to her or she hid within herself from him when she was troubled, it didn't mean there wasn't committed love and respect between them.

Perry reached out and very gently drew an invisible line down her cheek. "Your attorney advises you to do what makes sense to you. He won't judge you, and he won't try to talk you out of anything that isn't perfectly legal. He will guide you and protect you and take care of your best interests."

Her smile was slow to form, playing sweetly across trembling lips. "That sounds a lot like what the man who loves me does."

"Well, they talk to one another occasionally," he admitted with twinkling eyes and a flash of dimples.

She suddenly became exceptionally warm from the inside out, his utter attractiveness and proximity creating a heady mixture of scorching desire. "It's sweltering in here," she said, somewhat flustered.

Perry immediately flung open the door, reached across the seat and half-dragged her out of the car and into his arms. She melted into him, raising eager lips to his with a low moan. The kiss was slow and long, their tongues dipping and dancing, intimately exploring familiar but exciting depths until neither one could breathe without gasping.

"Is there anything I can say to change your mind about the ice cream?" Perry whispered in her ear as his lips left hers to explore the silken skin of her neck.

Della went limp with helpless laughter and he crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair and taking a deep, cleansing breath of…her.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

He gently ran his finger across an impossibly high cheekbone then up and over a perfectly arched brow and down the slope of a pert, upturned nose. Eyelashes fluttered but the eyes didn't open. He repeated the course of his finger on the other side of her face and again the response was a flirty fluttering of eyelashes.

He leaned over and placed his mouth close to the delicate shell of her ear. "I know you're awake."

Her mouth curved into a contented smile. "No I'm not. I'm asleep and having a wonderful dream."

"If you're not awake, then I can't very well give you your present."

Her eyes popped open immediately and she propped herself up on her elbow, regarding him suspiciously beneath drawn-together brows. "I thought I wasn't getting a present because there are too many ears in the house and it seems I have a tendency to be loud. That's why we slept all by our lonesomes in rooms far, far apart."

Perry stifled his mirth and lightly swatted her backside. "That would be _**my**_ present," he told her. "You present is right here." He held out his hand, from which a copper link chain dangled. Three large slices of beautifully banded red and white agate were attached to the chain with copper wire intricately woven through the links.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in delight. "It's gorgeous."

"It's Lake Superior agate and copper gleaned from a closed mine. Mr. Velting found the agate, mined the copper, cut and polished the agate, smelted the copper and made the chain. He even edged each slice of agate with molten copper. If you look carefully, there are bits of copper suspended in the agate as well. This is what your jar of pretty stones brought out in Mr. Velting. I thought you should know about it."

Della clambered to her knees and took the necklace from him, turning it over and over carefully in her hands in silent admiration. "This is one of the best anniversary presents you've ever given me," she said, struck once more by how he had managed to find the perfect gift and present it to her in the perfect way.

Perry thought fleetingly about the little velvet box tucked far down into the toe of a shoe and smiled wistfully at her. "I thought you would like it. Here's the rest of your present." He opened his other hand and showed her a pair of earrings fashioned from clustered chips of red agate and copper wire.

Della plucked them from his palm and clipped them to her ear lobes. "Who would have thought a man like Oliver Velting could create something this lovely? The artistic vision he has is astounding."

"And the world would never have known about his talent if a little girl hadn't given him a jar of pretty stones."

She made a face at him, nose crinkled, mouth pursed. "Don't get all maudlin on me. I'm glad he appreciated my gift, but I didn't give him his talent." She climbed over him and slid off the bed. "This will go perfectly with at least two of my new dresses. Thank you, darling, I love it."

"You are more than welcome. At least _**two**_? Exactly how many dresses did you buy?"

"Only four." She opened the closet door, reached in and withdrew a multi-color striped dress with a bateau neckline, drop waist and very full skirt. She held it up to herself and twisted her hips. The voluminous skirt swished from side to side and she grinned.

Perry shook his head. "Four dresses…what about shoes?"

"Well of course I bought shoes. Two pairs of espadrilles and a pair of flats…don't look at me like that, Perry. I have money."

Good grief, he had forgotten the seven thousand dollars! They talked so little about her inheritance he had to remind himself of the newest complication in their life. "I suppose you can afford your little shopping spree at that. It is a nice dress."

She stood in the middle of the room, studying him intently for a few seconds before nodding. "The high school girls make them to raise money for charity. The workmanship is lovely. I thought I could leave them at the lake house."

He arranged a pile of pillows against the headboard of the bed and settled into their softness. "Did you ever make a dress for charity?"

She laughed and dove back into the closet, emerging presently with a small _Skogmo's_ shopping bag. "Heaven's no. There was no time for sewing. I had ballet three days a week and piano lessons two days a week. Grandmother taught me to hem and sew on buttons, and tried to teach me needlepoint, but I was hopeless at it." She approached the bed and held out the bag to him. "For you."

Perry took the bag and blinked in surprise. "For me?"

"Yes, for you. Open it." She clasped her hands together beneath her chin in sparkly-eyed anticipation.

He did as bidden and couldn't believe what the bag contained. ""Are you kidding?" He turned the bag upside down and the contents tumbled onto the bed. "Chuck Taylor All Star Low-Tops?" He burst out laughing. "I haven't had a pair of Converse sneakers since I was twelve or thirteen."

"I expect you to wear them," she said sternly, hands now on hips. "You can leave them at the lake house, but you'll wear them whenever we are there. Your wardrobe is entirely too uptight, as evidenced by the fact we were headed to a remote lake and you packed clothes appropriate for meetings with million-dollar lawyers and I have to wear a dress that cost $11.98."

He got up off the bed and gathered her to him. "Come here, you funny kid," he said tenderly. "You bet your sweet life I'll wear them. And for your information, I won't be leaving them at the lake house." He lowered his head and kissed her quickly before setting her away from him reluctantly. "It's already almost eight-thirty. We should leave here by nine-fifteen to make our appointment with Jim's cousin."

She ducked behind him and yanked the covers up to the head of the bed, while unceremoniously dumping pillows on the floor. "Go take a shower. I took mine last night as a diversion after you summarily rejected my advances. I'll meet you downstairs. I think there are blueberry muffins left from the wake and if we're lucky Henny showed up to make coffee. I must say I appreciate everything she does around here but I truly wish she would stop mooning over Carter. He doesn't deserve to be mooned over."

"Somebody needs to knock some sense into Carter, and I'd like to be first in line to volunteer. Maybe you could talk to Henny." He paused at the door, his hand on the knob, eyebrows raised. "Kitchen, nine o'clock?

She nodded absently, absorbed in her task of making the bed while thinking about what to do with Henrietta Vander Velde.

He stood at the door watching her efficient movements, marveling at his own strength and fortitude that last night he had been able to deny not only her desire, but his own.

* * *

"Impressive building," Della said in frank admiration. The building was square and smooth, the façade appearing to have been constructed in a series of photo mattings of different sizes cut out around tall, narrow windows separated by even narrower stone dividers. Completely different than the stark, plain surrounding buildings of this fairly large city forty-five minutes from her home town, it fairly begged to be gawked at.

"The corner stone says it was built in nineteen thirty-six. You don't generally like art deco." Perry placed his hand over hers simply to feel her skin against his. She looked positively lovely in the sundress made by some anonymous high school girl, striped in muted shades of blue, green, red, and cream, the copper and agate necklace a perfect complement. Cream peep-toe espadrilles, a large straw handbag and the straw sunhat with the trailing scarf completed her outfit. He couldn't take his eyes from her, and neither could most of the men who passed by them as they walked from the parking lot to the building that housed the law firm in which Jeremy Brandis was a partner.

"I didn't say I liked it. I said it was impressive." She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and gave him a sideways glance. "You're slipping, Mr. Mason. Should we pop into a court session so you can re-sharpen your mental faculties?"

"That might not be a bad idea, depending upon how long it takes to determine whether or not you like Mr. Brandis, and if you do how quickly we can hammer out a plan for probating the estate."

"I'm sure I'll like him," Della said confidently, stepping over the brass threshold of the building's entrance and waiting for Perry to catch up to her. He placed his hand at the small of her back and propelled her toward the elevators, which were set in relief in the same manner as the exterior windows. The ornate floor indicator plaques above each elevator car were a marvel of angles and circles Perry found fascinating but Della barely gave them a two-second glance. "Did Jim tell you anything about his cousin?"

Perry settled her next to him toward the rear of the car as several other passengers suddenly crowded into the elevator. He shook his head and slipped his arm around her waist to steady her when the elevator lurched upward. "Not much. Just that he's highly regarded and moved out here from L.A. because of a woman."

"He moved _**here**_ from California?" She frowned slightly. "That's something to consider."

Perry smiled down at her. "He sacrificed for love. That has to count for something."

"We'll see," she replied crisply. "I was half-inclined to retain him sight unseen because he's Jim's relative simply to get the process started, but the tidbit about his relocation has given me pause. I want to hand it all over to someone I can trust and not have to think about it unless absolutely necessary. I fear this bit of news brings his judgment into question."

"If you retain him all documents and correspondence will come directly to me. You won't have to think about it unless I find it necessary to involve you."

"And who pray-tell will be opening and sorting and badgering you about those documents and correspondence?" she demanded archly.

The elevator bumped to a stop at the eleventh floor and the doors opened sluggishly. Perry tapped the arm of the man in front of them and he and Della exited the car directly into the gleaming marble reception area of Brandis, Blandings, & Brocton, otherwise known as BB&B to locals.

Della whistled under her breath as she slowly spun in a circle, taking in the expansive coffered ceilings and sedate furnishings. "I only inherited seven hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets," she whispered urgently to Perry. "Can I afford this guy without hocking Grandma Esther's jewelry?"

A tall, thin woman with jet-black hair scraped back into a severe bun rose from behind an elevated reception desk and approached them. "Miss Street? Mr. Mason?" At Perry's nod she smiled. "I'm Ethel. Unfortunately Miss Grabinski, his secretary, called in ill, so if you'll please follow me I'll show you to Mr. Brandis' office."

Perry and Della dutifully followed Ethel down a long corridor off of which several doors opened. At the fifth door on the right at the end of the hall, Ethel paused and reached for one of a pair of enormous brass knobs mounted smack in the middle of two doors that Perry estimated to be nine feet tall. Beyond the doors was a small office that held a desk, a credenza file cabinet and a typewriter stand, as well as a leather couch and two leather wing side chairs. In the center of the small room was another set of tall doors, which Ethel approached and rapped on loudly. From within could be heard a shouted "Come in, Ethel!" Ethel smiled and twisted the brass knob, standing aside so that Della could precede Perry into the inner sanctum of Jeremy Brandis, Esquire.

"Mr. Brandis. Miss Della Street and Mr. Perry Mason," Ethel announced, and then with another smile, backed up two steps and closed the doors.

Della stepped into the decidedly masculine corner office as Jeremy Brandis, a six-foot tall, sandy-haired, green-eyed Adonis, jumped to his feet and hurried around the side of a desk that wasn't much more than a hand-hewn plank on elaborate sawhorses but had probably cost more than she made in an entire year – and she was perfectly aware that Perry unabashedly overpaid her.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, extending his hand to usher Della toward one of the leather client chairs positioned in front of his desk. "And may I say 'wow' again. Jimmy told me you were good-looking, Miss Street, not drop-dead gorgeous!"

Laughter bubbled up in Della and she thrust her hand out to shake the estate lawyer's hand. "Thank you. I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Brandis."

Jeremy Brandis took her hand in a firm handshake. "Not nearly as pleased as I am to meet you, Miss Street. I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother. I was fortunate enough to meet her several years ago. Interesting woman." He turned abruptly to Perry and offered his hand. "And you are the famous Perry Mason. Jimmy has spoken of you often. I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Mason."

Della caught Perry's eyes behind Jeremy Brandis' back, raised one eyebrow, mouthed 'Jimmy'? and broke into a grin.

Perry accepted Jeremy's hearty handshake. "It's Della and Perry. No reason to be formal when we're going to be working together so closely."

Jeremy Brandis looked surprised. "We are? I haven't given you my twenty-four karat sure-fire why-you-should-retain-me speech yet."

Perry waved his hand toward Della, who had removed her sunhat and plunked herself down in a chair, and was pulling out a stenographic notebook and pencils. "She's already decided you're her attorney."

Jeremy Brandis grinned at Perry Mason. "Knows her mind, eh Perry?"

"And uses it, Jeremy," he agreed in a slight warning, taking a seat in the chair next to Della and setting down his brief case.

She flipped up the cover of her steno pad, and leaned forward in the chair as Jeremy Brandis took his seat behind the desk, still a bit shell-shocked by her attractiveness and her quick decision to retain him to probate her grandmother's estate.

"I have a plan outlined," she began. "I'm afraid it's mostly in shorthand so I'll have to read it to you and rewrite it…"

Jeremy held up his left hand as he reached for the intercom with his left and flipped a switch. "Gregg or Pitman?"

"Gregg," Della confirmed.

"Ethel," he said into the box, "can you send in someone to transcribe notes in Gregg?"

Perry leaned sideways, stunned that the entire notebook was filled with shorthand hieroglyphics. "When did you do that?"

She met his eyes with an innocent expression. "I had a lot of time and energy last night," she replied sweetly. "I put it to good use."

Perry opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and sat back with a bemused smile on his face. She must have been up until the wee hours putting her plan on paper and yet she looked alert and fresh as the proverbial daisy.

Jeremy Brandis let his eyes slide from the respected criminal attorney to his undeniably beautiful and efficient secretary and back to Perry Mason again. Jimmy hadn't properly conveyed Miss Street's appearance, but he hadn't missed the mark on the chemistry between her and her employer if the expression in Perry Mason's eyes was any indicator. "All right Della, let's take a look at your plan and see what we have looming in front of us."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Della slipped into her favorite Springolator mules with rhinestone bows across the peep toe and more rhinestones suspended in the Lucite of the spike heels, and took a step back from the full-length free-standing mirror. Estelle had outdone herself with this design, a double layer of supple white tulle over a white silk under skirt, the tulle trimmed with shimmering iridescent sequins in a starburst pattern that radiated downward toward the hem. The bodice was heart-shaped, tight, and completely covered by sequins. Thin sequined straps were more for effect than function and she'd requested that Estelle not remove them because she knew Perry would like them. She wore no jewelry, save for a pair of delicate drop diamond earrings, choosing instead to let the sequins on the dress speak for themselves.

There was a soft tap on the door and her mouth curved into a tender smile. He was always so proper about 'his' anniversary dinner, requesting that she wear a white dress as she had the wonderful night their lives changed forever two years after they met, and refusing to get ready at her apartment. Instead he would formally ring her doorbell and she would answer his summons with butterflies in her stomach, anticipating his reaction to her dress, as well as her reaction to his reaction.

"Come in," she sang softly. She grabbed a tulle shoulder wrap hemmed with double rows of sequins from the back of a slipper chair and turned expectantly toward the door as she heard it being swung open.

"Oh," Della said, startled by who stood in the doorway.

"Ohhhhh," Henny Vander Velde breathed, "that's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. You look like a movie star, Della."

Della smiled, recovered from her initial surprise at seeing Henny and not Perry at the door. "Thank you, Henny. I'm fortunate that a dear, generous friend is a very talented dress designer."

"Yes, you are very fortunate."

Della took two steps toward Henny, detecting a bit more in her comment than polite agreement. "What's the matter Henny? Go ahead and close the door so we can talk."

Henny shrank back the same two steps Della had taken forward. "N-no," she stammered, "you're getting ready to go out. It's not important."

Della reached out and put her hand reassuringly on Henny's arm. "Henny, don't go. I have plenty of time to listen if you have something on your mind. Close the door," she urged gently.

Della draped the wrap back over one of the chintz-covered slipper chairs and sat down, fluffing out the frothy sequined tulle and crossing her ankles daintily as she did so. After a few seconds of hesitation, Henny moved to the second slipper chair and seated herself self-consciously across from Della. "You're very nice to make time for me."

"Our reservation isn't for another thirty minutes. This is not an imposition at all. Now, what is it you'd like to talk about?" She hoped her voice sounded more certain of herself than she felt. She hadn't been able to decide what she wanted to say to Henny, so her mind quickly rifled through the possibilities.

Henny looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "I – please don't take offense at what I'm about to say, because I assure you I don't intend any. I'm a little lost and I don't really have anyone I can talk to. You're a nice person, I can tell, even though we haven't had much opportunity to get to know one another." She raised sad, red-rimmed eyes to Della. "Why did she do it? Why did Grandmother Katherine leave everything to you?"

"I haven't quite figured that out myself," Della admitted truthfully with a slight frown. "She and I weren't close. It really was quite a shock."

Henny visibly deflated. "Oh. I was hoping…I guess I don't know what I was hoping."

Della scooted to the edge of the slipper chair, making a snap decision about the direction the conversation should take. "Henny, are you in love with Carter?"

Della thought the expression in Henny's eyes was the saddest she had ever seen following a fleeting expression of surprise at her bold, personal question. "I thought I was," Henny whispered in anguish. "He's changed and I don't know what I feel now. The Carter I know wouldn't have said those horrible things to you or antagonized Mr. Mason the way he did. Everything I hoped for, everything we planned…Della, he's my last chance. He told me he loved me. No man has ever said that to me before."

"Oh, Henny," Della said softly, her heart breaking. She couldn't tell the poor woman that she wasn't at all surprised by Carter's behavior. He had always been priggish and petulant, set in his ways and disdainfully judgmental of what he didn't understand. He had never shown much interest in her, virtually ignoring her unless he absolutely had to acknowledge her. As a child she had adored her big brother from afar, a mysterious, dark, silent presence she wanted to love but wasn't allowed to. Then Danny arrived and she finally understood what it was like to love someone unconditionally, and to have that someone love her back in kind, so the scraps she got from Carter didn't matter anymore. She wrote him off as someone she should care about and had never regretted the decision. Two years ago he had paid for her to fly back to L.A., back to Perry, when her misery at being in the bosom of her family pushed her to let loose her true feelings in public. She had been touched by his gesture, but over the past few days that act haunted her. Had he sent her back to Perry because he truly recognized her life was in California with him or because he wanted her out of the way forever?

"You and Mr. Mason…it's obvious he wants what's best for you." She dropped her head again. "I'm so far down on Carter's list right now I may as well not exist. How do I get him to say he loves me again? How do you keep Mr. Mason…_**interested**_ in you?"

Della impulsively slid from the chair and onto her knees in front of Henny, who was trying not to dissolve into tears, and hugged her. "Honestly and truly, Henny, I don't do anything aside from be myself, which I'm doubly fortunate that Perry appreciates and encourages. That is what I would tell you to do, because that's all I know to do. If Carter is any kind of man he'll snap out of it and come to his senses." She hugged Henny again. "It's a lot of hard work to stay interested...and it takes a lot of luck to find someone willing to work that hard."

"I've never been a lucky person," Henny stated without self-pity. "Nothing I ever thought would happen in my life has happened. I suppose it was foolish of me to think I would actually marry Carter and live in this house. I'll tell you something you don't know: Grandmother Katherine was wrong about Carter. He is worthy of me, and he does want to work at the mill. He just doesn't want to be Administrative Vice President. He would much rather be in development or out on the floor with Gale Shaffer."

"He would?" Della asked, surprised that her almost prissy brother would ever want to get his hands dirty.

Henny nodded, coming alive herself. "You should see him in a production meeting! He has plans and ideas and he gets so excited…that's the Carter I know, Della, and I do love him. I wish he would stand up to Jameson instead of always hiding in the shadows trying to be something he isn't. He's good at his job, but he's miserable most of the time."

"Henny, I don't have any influence with Carter at all. He hardly tolerates me as a person, let alone as his sister, but if you'd like me to talk to him, I will. Maybe he'll listen to me for once."

Henny sighed deeply and pushed Della away so she could stand up. "I appreciate your offer, Della, but Carter won't listen. He's nursing a pretty healthy dislike for you right now, and while I know it's unjustified, I also know he can't help it. It's just the way he is." She headed toward the door unsteadily. "Thank you for this little chat."

"Henny, wait," Della implored, placing her hands flat on the seat of the slipper chair to aid getting to her feet. There was so much more they could say to one another and Della didn't feel right about letting Henny leave just yet.

Henny yanked open the door and turned back toward Della. "It's okay, Della," she said sadly. "I'm looking for answers to questions that can't be answered by anyone but me. Thank you for being honest with me." She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Perry placed a penny on the white linen tablecloth and with his index finger, slowly pushed it toward Della, and then withdrew his hand.

Della, preoccupied with inner turmoil through much of their dinner, looked up from her plate and gave him an embarrassed little smile. "I'm afraid you've overpaid for my thoughts, darling," she told him quietly.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, since I'm the one paying to hear them." He folded his napkin and set it to the side of his plate. The country club dining room was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday evening, and he had requested a secluded table, which turned out to be small and square and partially hidden by a potted fig tree strung with white twinkle lights that reflected against the sequins of Della's dress and bathed her in a most flattering glow. For a last-minute reservation graciously made by Della's father, he couldn't complain, as the food and ambiance hadn't been half-bad, but he might as well have been dining alone.

She played with the barely touched spaghetti on her plate, twirling the pasta and a remnant of a meatball around and around with a heavy silver fork. "Is this a new ploy to get me to open up? Bribery?"

"It's not a bribe. I thought it might make you smile."

This time her smile was tender and true. "I'm ruining your dinner. I'm sorry."

"Are you going to let me in on what it was Henny said that upset you?" He had witnessed Henny's tearful exit from Della's bedroom on his way to claim his dinner date, but the sight of Della in the stunning white dress had overshadowed any questions he might ask at the moment as he speechlessly swept her into his arms. But now, nearly two hours later, she was still silently brooding, and it was time to get to the bottom of it.

She shook her head. "It's nothing in particular Henny said."

He regarded her with resigned scrutiny. "You aren't going to tell me." His hand once again moved across the space between them.

She quickly placed her hand over his to stop him from retrieving the penny. "Don't. Please."

"I don't like this, Della. I thought we had a deal."

It was her turn to fold her napkin and place it next to her plate. "I'm trying, really I am, Perry. I'm here. I didn't run to the vangcant lot or lock myself in my room to think."

Perry leaned forward, his fingers twining with hers. "I suppose that's progress. Are you second-guessing what we set up with Jeremy this morning?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm very pleased with my decisions."

Perry smiled at her. "So am I. I'm so impressed with you, Della. You came up with a very thoughtful, thorough plan. It's straightforward and fair and solid. I think your Grandmother would be pleased as well."

A tiny crease appeared between her delicately arched brows. "Although, there are one or two minor things I might tweak before finalizing everything Thursday," she began, then lapsed into silence, the crease deepening. "That's what I've been thinking about."

"You aren't going to stay up all night tweaking are you?"

"No. I was hoping to stay up all night engaged in more…satisfying…activities."

"That's very forward of you, Miss Street, considering how crowded the house is at this particular time." His eyes held an incandescent desire that belied his cautionary words.

She leaned forward so that only inches separated their faces. "Did you know there is a caretaker's apartment over the garage?"

Perry's mouth turned up slyly at the corners. "No I did not."

"Did you happen to wonder why it took so long to get my hair done this afternoon?" After their appointment with Jeremy Brandis they had stopped for a quick lunch at a roadside burger stand and then returned to the house where Perry relinquished the car to Della so she could get her hair done and he could look over more estate documents and make some phone calls. He was just hanging up with Paul Drake three hours later when she appeared in the doorway of Jameson Street's study, radiant with freshly washed and styled hair and coyly evasive of his questioning.

"As a matter of fact, I did. You've got something up your sleeve, don't you?"

Della shrugged her bare shoulders. "I have no sleeves, Mr. Mason. But I think we should definitely investigate that apartment over the garage. Purely for fact-finding purposes in connection with the estate." She gave him a wide-eyed stare of pure innocence.

"Such time spent in that apartment will necessarily have to go on my bill," he warned.

"I can afford it," she replied, eyes still wide, but the expression no longer quite innocent.

"Then I shall be more than happy to accept payment." He reached up and brushed his knuckles across her cheek with infinite tenderness. "There is no woman on earth more beautiful than you, Della Street. Remind me to send a personal thank you note to Estelle for designing this dress."

The humor in her eyes slowly ebbed, to be replaced by desire as heatedly intense as his. "I'm pretty much a sure thing, Mr. Mason. You needn't flatter me so."

Perry threw back his head and laughed, a great booming belly laugh that stopped conversation in the dining room momentarily as necks craned to see who disturbed the gentility of the setting. Della looked out at the curious diners with a self-consciously apologetic smile.

"It wasn't that funny, Perry," she said under her breath as he struggled to regain his composure. "People are staring."

"Let 'em stare! Why do you care?" He picked up his napkin and dabbed at his eyes for effect. "You have no idea how unprepared I was for that comment. You look so innocent and ladylike in your white dress."

"Well, we know I'm not innocent," she grumbled, but couldn't stop a smile from blossoming. "And we've already covered the whole look like a lady/sound like a lady dichotomy so it shouldn't have come as any great surprise."

He leaned forward, closer than before. "But you are every inch a lady," he said, his voice low and rumbling. It sent shivers through her even as her cheeks grew rosy and warm. "I know that because I happen to be very well acquainted with every inch of you. Ah, see? Only a lady would blush like that."

She met his blazing gaze, helplessly enthralled by his voice. "My own improper thoughts are making me blush right now. It's a shame you wasted your penny earlier on uninteresting thoughts about my inheritance."

Perry reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. Very gravely he selected three more pennies and placed them next to the first penny. Della stared at the pennies, biting her bottom lip, her blush intensifying, her seduction complete.

"I think we should dance some more," Perry said quietly. "And you can tell me all about those thoughts."

Della swallowed hard. "Yes," she whispered. "But not here. I have a surprise for you."

Perry stood and signaled for their waiter, who had been hovering nearby. The young man pulled out a dinner chit and Perry scrawled his signature charging Jameson Street's account without taking his eyes from Della's ethereal features. He reached for the back of her chair and she slipped her hand into his as she arose gracefully, the tulle of her dress swishing alluringly against the silk underskirt. "I thought you might," he said as the waiter backed tactfully away from the table.

His hand at the small of her back caressing the rows and rows of painstakingly sewn sequins, Perry piloted Della between tables filled with curious dinner patrons, oblivious to their curious stares, his mind racing with possibilities. They passed through the bar and were rounding the corner from a short hallway to the club's entryway, completely mesmerized by one another, when they literally bumped into a familiar couple entering the bar.

Miranda Allensworth let out a surprised exclamation and flung out her arm to Peter Stanton, who grabbed it and pulled her close to his side, steadying her. "Where's the fire for crying out loud, Del?"

Della clutched at Perry's arm, tottering a bit on her Lucite heels. "I'm so sorry, Miranda. I guess we weren't looking where we were going."

Miranda regarded her oldest friend with a perturbed scowl. "I'll say you weren't," she grumbled. She pulled her wrap more closely around her shoulders and turned away from Della. "I hardly expected to see you here," she went on in the same grumble. "I thought you would be at home sharpening your claws for the kill."

Della drew in a sharp breath as Perry took a step toward Miranda. "Miss Allensworth," he said in a calm, authoritative voice at odds with his physical bearing, "I wouldn't say such things in public if I were you."

Peter Stanton stiff-armed Perry Mason belligerently. "Don't threaten my girlfriend, Mr. Mason. You may think you're a tough guy, but I'm pretty tough myself."

Perry firmly removed the younger man's arm from his chest. "I have no desire to find out who's the tougher one of us," he said in that same calm voice. "I'm merely making the point that we are in a public place and therefore one should be more careful about what one says."

"Everyone already knows Della got what belonged to other people," Miranda hissed, "Nothing I say will shock anyone. And by the way, your fancy lawyer called today to 'invite' me and my parents to your little gloating party Thursday. I understand everyone else mentioned in Grandmother Katherine's letter is invited as well." She pulled her shoulder wrap further up around her neck, refusing to face either Della or Perry. "Don't be surprised if no one shows up."

"I would advise you to attend, Miss Allensworth."

Miranda swung to face Perry, one hand clutching her wrap beneath her chin, eyes snapping with fury. "How dare you _**advise**_ me about anything, Mr. Mason! Why haven't you _**advised**_ Della to give back what rightfully belongs to me? I've waited days and days for her to do what's right and she hasn't bothered to talk to me at all."

"Miranda, we've been busy with visitations and the funeral," Della said in protest, hurt and disappointed by Miranda's rancor. "And we only saw a local attorney this morning – "

"I'm sick of how self-righteous and bewildered you pretend to be, hiding behind attorneys and begging for pity," Miranda interrupted bitterly. "Poor little Della, no one loved her and she had to run away in order to be happy. Then she comes back for a visit decked out in fur coats and designer dresses, full of stories about her exciting life and her handsome boss, and we were all so impressed. Well, we're not impressed anymore, Del. We see you now for what you are, so don't think for a moment anyone has one tiny bit of sympathy for you because you pretend to be befuddled by all of this. Come, Peter, we're late for our reservation."

Della clutched at Perry's arm when he would have followed Miranda and Peter back into the dining room. "No! Don't go after them. There's been enough of a scene."

Perry turned her to face him, holding her gently by her upper arms. "Are you sure? She said some pretty awful things."

Della looked at him with large, sad eyes and nodded. "I'm sure. Remember when I said nothing I knew was real anymore? I've discovered that Miranda's friendship is the most unreal thing of all."

Perry slipped his arm around her waist sympathetically and led her down the entry hall of the club to the big, carved double doors. The valet opened the door and the couple stepped out into the summer night, a blessedly cool seventy-eight after several straight days of nearly one-hundred degree heat lasting into evening. Della shivered involuntarily, more a reaction to the unpleasant encounter with Miranda and Peter than an actual chill, but it was then she realized that her shoulder wrap was still draped over a chair at the secluded table in the dining room.

"Perry, I left my wrap at the table," she said in dismay.

Perry handed a ticket to the valet and turned back to Della, lovely and shivering in her pristine dress. A gentle breeze made the tulle dance about her calves and he almost forgot to breathe she was so unearthly beautiful. "I'll go back in and get it," he offered, waving the valet off.

But she had already turned and taken a step back toward the doors. "No, I'll get it. You take care of the valet and position the car for a quick getaway." She pulled on one of the heavy doors and disappeared back inside the club before he could protest.

She really didn't want to attract attention to herself by retracing their steps through the main cocktail lounge and back into the dining room, and instead crept on tiptoes through the darkened ballroom and into the small bar used for private parties. French doors at the opposite end of the bar led to the dining room, and the table she and Perry had recently abandoned was situated directly to one side of the doors. She approached the doors, twisted the knob, and was sincerely grateful that the door opened inward quietly. She sidled over to the table, which had been cleared but not reset, and was even more sincerely grateful that the busboy had not seen her wrap lying on one of the chairs. She bent to retrieve the scrap of tulle and as she did so, caught sight of Miranda and Peter seated with a couple she didn't recognize. Using the twinkle light infested weeping fig as cover, she stared across the dining room at Miranda. Her oldest friend had removed her wrap, revealing a bejeweled necklace. A matching bracelet encircled her left wrist.

Ruby starburst, set in gold.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Della made Perry promise to remain in the small foyer at the bottom of the stairs while she ran up to 'check on a couple of things' in the carriage house apartment, and he couldn't help but chuckle when she hiked up her skirt and took the stairs two at a time into the darkness above. And she stole his breath when she reappeared at the top of the stairs, softly lit from behind, an angelic smile on her lips, an elegant arm beckoning him to join her. He took the stairs _**three**_ at a time as Frank Sinatra crooned about being bewitched, bothered and bewildered in the background.

When he reached the top step, Della placed her hands on his shoulders and raised half-parted lips to Perry's. With him on the step and her on the landing, their height difference nearly erased, she felt in command, exactly as she wanted it. She coaxed a stifled moan from him when she lightly bit his lower lip and then slid her tongue over it to soothe the delicious nip.

His arms crept around her sequined middle, drawing her closer as he leaned into the kiss, teasing her soft lips with tantalizing, maddening gentleness before his tongue touched hers in a silent request for access to the inner sanctum of her mouth. But she denied him what he so badly wanted with a shake of her head.

"Patience, Mr. Mason" she scolded in a nearly inaudible whisper, pulling him up onto the landing and into the small apartment.

"Della," he said in astonishment, disbelieving of the sight before him.

She twisted as his arms encircled her so that they both faced the interior of the small, square, sloped-roof apartment and what she had managed to do in a few short hours that afternoon. There was only one light source – a lamp on the floor beneath a window at the far end of the room. A filmy scrap of fabric was draped over the shade, bathing the room in a muted pinkish glow. A large box fan pulled in the cool, sweet night air through the window. To the right, below the eave, two four-inch featherbeds had been stacked on the floor, with several pillows artfully arranged against the bead board paneling of the wall. A low parson's table placed next to the make-shift mattress held the kitchen radio, two Waterford crystal Lismore champagne/sherbet glasses and a heavy crystal vase from which jutted the neck of a champagne bottle.

"You like?" Della asked softly.

He nuzzled her neck, his breath warm and enticing on her skin. "Oh, I like very much. And may I say that as beautiful as you are in that dress, I can't wait to see how beautiful you are out of it."

She twisted again so that she was facing him, a brazenly sly smile curving her lips upward. "All in good time," she chastised him coyly, placing her palms on his shirtfront. "First, champagne." She slipped from his embrace and floated over to where the crystal vase sat on the table, sinking gracefully to her haunches to pull the bottle from the icy vessel. Swiftly, efficiently, effortlessly she popped the cork, and rose to her feet, triumphantly brandishing the dripping bottle. She poured them each a glass, bent to push the bottle back into the vase of ice, and returned to where Perry still stood, his eyes drinking in her every movement. She handed him his glass and lifted one eyebrow, which only served to fuel his initial desire to divest her of the delectable dress now rather than 'in good time'.

She held her glass aloft. "You make the toast."

Jo Stafford was telling her lover that she would be seeing him in all the old familiar places as Perry very deliberately, never breaking eye contact with her, touched his glass to hers with a beautifully pure 'ping'. "To all the unspeakably wicked things I am going to do to you on that featherbed, Miss Street."

Della raised the fine crystal glass to her lips and instead of taking a sip as he did, quickly tossed back its contents, turned, and crossed over to the table, where she poured herself another drink, and again floated back to where he had taken root in the floorboards. "Such a fine toast deserves more than one puny glass of champagne," she explained, sipping daintily.

Perry chuckled quietly, although he wanted to burst into unrestrained laughter, toss her onto the featherbed and make good on his toast that very second. "I'm glad you approve. Sometimes it's difficult to come up with just the right words for a toast." He drained the bubbly wine from the valuable old crystal glass and regarded her with eyes darkened by thinly-veiled passion.

She took his glass and this time he followed her over to the table where he adjusted the volume on the radio while she placed the glasses back on the table with hands that trembled visibly. They stood beneath the slanted eave, Perry's head bent due to his height, swaying slightly to Ella Fitzgerald lamenting about songs of love not being written for her, lips almost touching, but not quite.

"Dance with me," she whispered.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, and took the woman who held his heart irrevocably in his arms.

The apartment was too small to dance properly, but Perry managed to guide Della in a compact version of a waltz, holding her slender, lithe body against his bigger, muscular frame. He was completely enthralled with her and how she must have struggled to drag those featherbeds out of the house and up the steep stairs to this apartment. That she would do this for him in the middle of such personal turmoil touched him in that place only she could reach, the place he hadn't known existed until the moment he realized he was falling in love with his secretary, the place where something called happiness resided in him, dormant.

Perry's long fingers traced the narrow trail of sequins up and over the creamy skin of her shoulder, sliding beneath the strap and caressing her shoulder blade gently. He lowered his head, and using his teeth, pulled the strap from her shoulder so that it dangled over her arm, their dance now nothing more than a slight shifting from foot to foot in time to the music. Della gasped audibly when he repeated the endeavor on her other shoulder, her breathing ragged from champagne, from being wrapped in his strong arms, and especially from the anticipation of the deliciously intimate things they would do to fulfill his toast. As his mouth left a trail of kisses over her flushed and tingling skin, his fingers located the side zipper of her dress and deftly pulled it down. Surrendering herself to his arousing touch, she performed a tiny shimmy and the heavenly dress slid off her, landing in a fluffy heap around her legs. He nearly lost control when she was revealed to be wearing only scandalously brief undergarments bedecked with rows and rows of tiny ruffles she had once told him were called 'bloomer panties', but managed to gather enough composure to take a moderately steady step back from her.

"Uh oh," he said with mild mock alarm, "now look what I've done."

* * *

He was an exceptionally good-looking man, especially in repose, his strong features tranquil, the angles softened by complete relaxation. She loved how he looked younger, and dare she think it, vulnerable; thick black eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, fluttering occasionally as tiny, flickering smiles moved across his beautifully shaped lips. She wondered what unconscious thoughts manifested themselves in those secret, fleeting smiles; what pleasant dreams caused those soft dimples at the corners of his mouth. She liked to think his thoughts were of her, that she was primarily responsible for the peacefulness of those smiles and his boyishly relaxed countenance. He was a sound sleeper, a quiet sleeper not prone to much movement, and she knew that if she closed the small space between them, his dimples would deepen and he would tuck her possessively against his side, plant a kiss on her forehead, and settle right back into his comfortable, even pattern of breathing.

She was tired, a glowingly happy, thoroughly sated, blissfully pleasured weariness of various unchaste but oh-so-satisfying acts, instead of the draining fatigue she'd lived with since arriving back in this town. What Perry brought out in her often startled her sensibilities, but his unselfish pursuit of her pleasure, and the unbridled joy she saw in his eyes at her responses to his voracious lovemaking pushed aside lingering inhibitions, taking her to heights of sensation she couldn't possibly conceive of achieving with anyone else. To feel like this because she loved and was loved made the satiation all that more complete.

Yes, she was tired, but she didn't want to waste this opportunity to study him in the muted glow of the lone table lamp. Watching him, listening to him breathe, and excessively assured of his feelings for her, helped put the past few days in perspective. Had it really only been six days since Eve Wyman crossed her threshold? Had her grandmother really only been gone for five days? Had the will reading really only been three days ago? So much had happened in such a short period of time, so much that affected her life with Perry and in general, so much that she had to think about. She wished she could make Perry understand that just because she found it necessary to dig deep into herself to cope didn't mean she was completely shutting him out. She needed the stability of his affection most, desperately in fact, when her thoughts took confounding detours, when carefully sorted and solved, parsed and parceled, dissected and disseminated realities surfaced to dog her. That irrational 'blurt' Perry had been pleased to hear hadn't pleased her at all and despite her promise to be more forthcoming in the future she felt unduly pressured – although she most definitely wasn't going to tell him that. His professional specialty held enough sturm and drang as it was, and she had vowed early in their relationship never to be an additional drain on him, one of those women who needed constant declarations of affection or unending compliments in order to feel secure. She knew with pure, simple truth and trust that Perry loved her and only her, and that he would do anything to make her happy. And even though it wasn't pleasant for her, she knew she would have to let him in on her thoughts more often despite her current misgivings.

His eyelashes fluttered again and she reached out her hand to trace the bowed lines of his upper lip, capturing a smile with gentle fingertips. Suddenly his eyes opened and she was mesmerized by his blue gaze, fingers stilled.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping. I was enjoying being watched." His smile widened. "And letting you sort out your thoughts."

Her fingers resumed their gentle stroking of his mouth. "I wish you wouldn't flaunt how well you know me."

"My dear, I assure you I do not flaunt. Care to tell me why you are awake and staring at me with such acquiescent intensity?"

She withdrew her hand and tucked it beneath her pillow. "Now you're just plain showing off. I don't think I'll tell you, Mr. Smarty Pants."

He frowned. "I don't know what's worse; calling Bart a pussycat or calling me Mr. Smarty Pants."

"What do you smile about when you're asleep?"

"And on to a more interesting subject, eh?" He tucked his hand beneath his pillow, mimicking her position. "If I smile in my sleep it's because I'm dreaming about you."

Her smile was breathtakingly pleased. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"That was not empty glibness. As you pointed out at dinner, I needn't flatter you. I'm telling you the truth."

She laughed, a soft chuckle low in her throat that sent sparks of desire from his brain to every part of his anatomy. The hand that had been tucked beneath the pillow emerged to trace the line of her jaw. She closed her eyes and shivered from his tender touch. "I know you are. And I'll tell you the truth. I was thinking about…everything. A lot has happened in a few short days."

"It certainly has," he agreed. His fingers dropped to the hollow between her throat and finely shaped collar bone. "We need to talk, Della."

"I know that, too. Does it have to be now?"

He resisted an urge to sigh. "Continuing to put off talking about it won't make it go away. I suppose it can wait until we get to the lake."

"We're still going to the lake?"

"Of course we are. I had hoped to leave Thursday after the meeting, but I think Friday is more realistic. We'll be able to salvage eight whole days of our vacation. Byron said he would hang around until we needed him to fly back. I'll call the airport tomorrow morning."

She was silent for a few seconds. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"May I ask you a question?" His finger blazed a trail between her breasts and back up to her collar bone.

Fairly certain of what was coming and not wanting the incandescence of their intimacy to fade, Della nestled down into the pile of pillows more deeply, her shivers giving way to outright trembling. "Go ahead. You might be surprised by my answer."

"Will you marry me, Della?"

"No, Perry, I won't."

"I thought you said I might be surprised by your answer?"

"Maybe I hoped you would ask a different question after our conversation in the vangcant lot."

He regarded her with exasperated consternation and retracted his hand to beneath the pillow once more. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fantastic."

He gave her one of his sleep-dimpled smiles. "I feel mighty fine myself. But we have to be careful, Della, more now than ever before. Maybe I should go back to using…"

"No! You don't like them and I don't like them and…and I don't want to talk about this right now. You said we didn't have to."

"This is your life we're talking about, Della," he explained patiently. "It's a whole new ballgame and I'm not willing to play when the stakes are so high."

"You were willing to play earlier tonight, Mr. Hypocrite. Two innings, and the seventh inning stretch, if I recall correctly. I told you, my doctor is modern and progressive and very highly respected. It's taken care of."

He rolled onto his back and stared at the sloping ceiling for several seconds. "We'll make an appointment with that very highly respected doctor as soon as possible. He needs to be briefed on the new developments. We have to find out if whatever it is that affected your maternal grandmothers, mother, and Mae was passed on to you."

"I'm not one of your cases," she reminded him irritably, although she was touched that he would want to accompany her to the doctor. But that could never happen. If a reporter got wind of Perry Mason and his secretary visiting the office of a renowned doctor whose specialty was rarely mentioned in polite company…well, she would not allow it.

His face was suddenly above her, his hands on either side of her face, and she gasped at the quickness of his movement. "No, you're my _**life**_, dammit," he said, his deep voice gravelly with fierce emotion, "and if keeping you safe means I'll never be able to make love to you again, then I'll do it. Because if anything happened to you…" his lips descended to hers and kissed her hungrily, almost frantically as his conversation with Jameson Street re-ran itself in his mind with painful clarity. Within a few breathless seconds the kiss became achingly tender and one hand left her face to rest on her hip, rolling her closer to him. "I can live without this, but I can't live without you."

She buried her fingers in his hair as his lips travelled from her pleasantly swollen lips to her neck. "You won't have to live without either," she promised, her voice a breathy whisper in his ear.

He lifted his head once more to catch her gaze. "Please marry me."

"No, darling."

"If we were married we wouldn't have to sneak into places like this."

"I thought you liked what I did in here."

"I do," he assured her quickly as hurt clouded her eyes. "But when we leave here, I'll go to my room and you'll go to your room, because despite the fact the house is now yours, no one living in it is comfortable with us sharing the same room."

"That's because my mother wants you for herself and my father is stuck in another century. And Carter, well, he's just weird."

"If we were married none of that would matter."

"Should I be worried about two proposals in two days? Why don't you ask my mother? She'll probably marry you if you ask."

"Grow up, Della. I'm trying to have an adult conversation with you."

Her hands gripped his hair tightly, so tightly it was uncomfortable. "Why is it nothing but marriage with you, Perry?"

"Why is it everything but marriage with you?"

This was more dangerous ground. "Look at my family, Perry. There isn't a single marriage I was exposed to that was successful. Children were considered necessary but treated like inconveniences, and nearly every husband cheated on his wife." Some men didn't even wait until they were husbands to cheat, but that was a subject she most assuredly wouldn't mention at this particular time.

"Have you never wanted to be married?"

Realizing how tense their discussion was making her, Della let go of his hair before she pulled it out by the roots and pushed him away from her. "I really never thought much about it." It was only a small lie. While engaged to Michael she didn't plan a wedding, didn't giggle with her girlfriends about showers and color schemes and registering for china patterns. She lived one day at a time, her grief for Danny raw and consuming. Her solace from that grief had been Michael and his willingness to soothe her in ways she in truth hadn't been prepared for. And in the end, neither had he. "I fought my feelings for you for a long time, perhaps because I began to think about marriage as a reality in my future. My feelings were…unexpected, to say the least."

"Why? Am I not, and I quote, 'way more handsome' than Michael?"

She loved the twinkle in his eye indicating his willingness to leave the topic unresolved. "Way more," she agreed with a matching twinkle.

"Am I not a scintillating conversationalist?"

Now she was openly amused. "You manage to keep up with me."

"And am I not the world's greatest lover?"

Her purposeful hesitation in answering elicited a groan from him. "You're the best I've ever had," she hastily assured him.

"Damned by faint praise," he muttered before turning serious once more. "As a little girl, didn't you play with dolls and dream of having babies?"

She was miffed that he wasn't nearly ready to let the conversation end. The twinkle in his eye had been nothing but a decoy to dispel the tension between them momentarily. She was quiet for so long that Perry began to think he had gone too far and was about to apologize when she finally replied.

"Not really. Miranda and Patsy did, but I didn't. I didn't have dolls I could actually play with. My dolls were to be looked at and admired from the top shelf, and taken down once a month to be dusted." She gently held him off when he attempted to embrace her in appalled sympathy, mad at himself for pushing her beyond where she wanted to go. "Aunt Mae tried to give me a baby doll for my birthday once. I remember Grandmother telling her not to interfere with my upbringing and throwing the doll onto the lawn. I could only play with it when I went over to Aunt Mae's house, and I couldn't tell anyone that I did. It was okay, because I didn't know how to play with a baby doll anyway." She smiled unexpectedly, brilliant and beautiful. "Until Danny was born and I had a real, live doll of my own."

"How did he die, Della?"

Her smile faded from joyful to sad in an instant. "One morning he woke up with a headache and by nine o'clock that night he was gone." She pulled her legs up into a semblance of the fetal position as she lay on her side, unconsciously placing a barrier between them. "Do men ever dream about getting married and having children?"

Sensing that she wasn't prepared to talk about Danny on top of their current topic, Perry filed away the tiny bit of information for another conversation at another time. "This man never did until he saw you holding his cousin Frank's grandson on Thanksgiving a few years ago. He thought it might be nice to contribute to the population of Mason men someday."

She shook her head. "No, you would be the one to break the pattern. Three girls. Lyla Mae, Julia Mae, and a little oops Stacy Mae."

"Why would we not just name one of these pretty curly-haired girls Mae?"

"Because Aunt Mae says that a proper first name has at minimum two syllables. One syllable names are afterthoughts meant to be middle names."

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. His heart literally hurt from how much he loved her. "I'm going to ask you one more time to marry me, Della."

"And I'm going to say no one more time. Ask the right question, Perry."

"But what about Julia, Stacy, and thank you very much, Lyla?"

"They weren't meant to be," she replied in a strange, lost whisper, her legs uncurling as her body strained toward him.

His arms slid around her and held her close. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in her familiar scent, the essence that was her and her alone. "If someday you want those three little girls, I'll make it happen," he promised, crushing her to him.

"I love you." Whispering still, but no longer lost, her arms circled his big, strong body as she wrapped her legs around his to cradle him at her core.

And suddenly he knew what it was he really wanted to accomplish through marriage with her, what it was she had been urging him to understand, what she had hinted at in their vangcant lot conversation. "Grow old with me," he said.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Katherine Street had no waffle iron in her kitchen, and Perry had cornered Francine Shaffer at the wake to ask if she had one he could borrow so he could make Della her anniversary waffle breakfast, a tradition he was dogged in perpetuating. He felt that if he surrounded Della with relative normalcy for the next couple of days in this forsaken house and town, their time at the lake would be that much more enjoyable. They still had a lot to talk about, their conversation just before dawn not-withstanding, but they had until they were old and grey to sort it all out.

He was about to pour the batter, a recipe given to him by a grateful client, when Eve Wyman wandered sleepily into the kitchen dressed in a revealing pink negligee, her hair a mass of artfully arranged curls. Shorter than Della's, a couple of false shades lighter, the cut was however remarkably similar and added to what Perry regarded more and more as a superficial resemblance to her daughter. The woman didn't possess Della's warmth or heart, and certainly not her sense of humor, and the lack of those attributes detracted from her physical attractiveness. He remembered that Eve had seen a newspaper picture of him and Della and wondered if the style of her hair was a complete coincidence. He would take nothing of Eve Wyman at face value, ever.

"Waffles!" she exclaimed in delight. "I haven't had waffles in years."

Perry calmly poured the batter onto the hot iron and closed the lid. He set the batter bowl on the counter and turned to face Della's mother. "These are for Della," he told her. Rudely, he hoped.

Judging by her face, his response had indeed been considered rude. But she covered her initial reaction beautifully as always. "Then I'll wait for the second batch."

Perry turned his back on her. "There won't be a second batch. There will be only these." She raised her eyebrows. "There is plenty of batter in that bowl for another waffle, Perry. Are you saying you won't make me one?"

"How perceptive of you, Mrs. Wyman. That is exactly what I'm saying." He could very easily pour the remaining batter into the iron, but loyalty to Della wouldn't allow it. He was beginning to think this house had cast the same spell of peevishness over him that it had cast over Della.

She walked past him to the coffee pot on the stove and poured herself a cup. After adding cream and sugar and stirring with the spoon Perry had used for his coffee, she leaned shapely hips against the counter. She wasn't quite as tall as her daughter, and slightly more rounded, her limbs not as long, her movements not as naturally graceful. "I'm getting the impression that you don't think much of me, Perry."

"I'm afraid you've grossly over-estimated my thoughts, Mrs. Wyman. I hardly think of you at all."

"You're not holding any animosity over our little run-in in the hallway the other night are you? I'm fully aware you've avoided me since that night. You needn't be embarrassed if you're attracted to me."

"I assure you my animosity was completely formed before you bumped into me that night, and that the last thing I am is attracted to you."

"You really are an impossible man to talk to, Perry." She regarded him with a bemused little smile that disguised her rising anger.

"Manipulative women like you are a dime a dozen, Mrs. Wyman. I admit you're a master at it, because not one man you've taken to the cleaners either emotionally or through his bank account will say an ill word about you. Actually, that's not quite right. Della's father might, but then he'd follow whatever he said by blaming himself for your behavior."

Eve Wyman banged her cup and saucer down on the counter, oblivious to the coffee that sloshed onto her filmy negligee. She stood facing him, her hands balled into fists. "How do you know what Paul Drake found out about me is true?"

"Of course it's true. Paul Drake is an exceptional detective," Perry replied calmly, raised the top of the waffle iron and poking a fork into one, lifted a corner from the appliance and checked its progress. He yanked the plug from the wall and quickly dislodged all four waffles, dividing them between two bone china plates and placing them on a tray that already held a small silver coffee service, two cups, a diamond cut glass sauce bowl containing syrup, and a matching glass bud vase with a single white rose. "I pay him a king's ransom in retainers plus exorbitant expenses so that I know exactly what I'm dealing with at all times. Mrs. Wyman, you can hide behind your illness for only so long, and I feel confident in telling you that Della has no desire to have anything but a forgettable passing acquaintance with you. Once we leave this house, I doubt you will ever see either of us again. Now if you'll excuse me, there is a hungry lady waiting for her waffles." He picked up the tray and exited the kitchen through the back door.

Eve Wyman waited until the screen door of the porch slammed behind him before grasping the jadeite batter bowl by the handle and letting it fall to the tiles at her feet and then reaching for the hot waffle iron.

* * *

Perry set the tray down on the low table and removed his robe, beneath which he wore only his boxers, and deposited it on the floor. He knelt next to the side of the featherbed where Della now lay sprawled on her stomach, nude and covered by the sheet only across her lower extremities. He resisted the urge to cup the luscious curve of her behind with his hands and instead bent to kiss her shoulder blade. She moaned deep in her throat and shifted restlessly, but didn't open her eyes. He kissed her again, this time below her ear, and she turned to circle his neck with one arm and bring his lips down to hers.

"Good morning," she said in a low, sleepy voice, letting him hold her splendid nakedness against his bare chest.

"Good morning, darling. Are you going to be a lazybones this morning or are you going to get up and see what I brought you?"

"I'm going to be a lazybones, Mr. Smarty Pants. I didn't get much sleep last night. Someone talked and talked and talked…" Perry dipped his head and silenced her with a heady kiss. "Oh, he did that a few times, too," she added.

Perry chuckled and kissed her again. "Sit up and look at what I brought you." He released her and she fell back against the pile of pillows before levering herself up on one arm to peer over his shoulder.

"Waffles!"

He nearly winced at how similar her exclamation was to her mother's after convincing himself the two women weren't similar at all. "Of course it's waffles. What did you expect for your anniversary breakfast?"

"But Grandmother didn't have a waffle iron. Father and Carter prefer pancakes." She scooted up into a proper sitting position and arranged the sheet around her lower half.

Perry picked up the tray once more and set it in the middle of the featherbed. He then climbed in next to her, careful not to jostle the tray. "You forget how resourceful I can be. I borrowed one from Fran Shaffer."

She was almost giddy with happiness, hands clasped beneath her chin in anticipation of tasting his handiwork as he buttered a plate of waffles and poured warm syrup over them. "I can't believe you did that."

"What kind of an anniversary would it be without waffles? You yourself said we should maintain traditions." He cut the waffles into bite-size pieces and passed the plate to her.

"It would be a lovely anniversary no matter if I had waffles or not." She speared two pieces and placed them in her mouth. The waffles were melt-in-her-mouth perfection and she closed her eyes in utter joy. "But having them makes it _**especially**_ lovely."

It truly was a sight, Della nude from the waist up, propped against a pile of pillows on the featherbed pallet, happily eating waffles, and one that Perry hoped never to forget. Despite what he'd said the night before, he did like this tiny apartment and what she had done to assure they would be alone outside of the house. They could be rambunctious in their lovemaking, and knowing that no one would hear them had erased all previous barriers. He knew his intense drive to give her pleasure like never before had initially startled her, but she had quickly recovered and given herself to him with complete trust that made him love her all the more.

In his younger days he had participated in sex as a feel-good diversion with more women than he would like to remember, and although these encounters had been primarily for his own gratification he was at all times a gentleman and maintained the high standard of actually going through the motions of courting a woman before bedding her. It was Laura Cavanaugh who had snatched him from those ultimately unfulfilling relationships, but even their physical relations had been a raw act of near-aggression culminating in an empty release, a vapid plateau that served his physical desires but not his emotional needs.

He discovered the art of making love with Della, and it was a glorious revelation of sensation on multiple levels, a never-ending adventure that fulfilled every possible desire both physical and emotional. She teased him sometimes about a lack of variety in positions, but he wanted to see her face, wanted to look into her eyes to her very soul because he was making love to _**her**_, the woman he was in love with. It was fun, it felt good, and there was plenty of lust involved, but if not for who she was and how he loved her, it would be as empty as it had been with those other women, a couple of whom he had actually formed quite an affection for.

He found it fascinating to be in love, to think of Della first in everything, his happiness directly linked to hers. And right now, watching her eat the waffles he had prepared for her with all the love she'd inexplicably found in him, gave him more pleasure than every single one of those forgotten women from his past rolled into one enormous euphoric peak.

He sucked in his breath sharply as drips of syrup falling from the last bite of waffle landed on her chest. He set down his empty plate and leaned over to lick the sticky drops from her perfect breasts before she could wipe them away. She held her plate aloft with one hand and placed her other hand at the back of his head buried in the thick black waves as his wondrous tongue and demanding mouth made quick work of the syrup and then travelled to a most responsive part of her anatomy. Her breathing became shallow and she closed her eyes as he pressed her further into the stack of pillows behind her.

Never lifting his head, he reached up, took the plate from her, and set it perfectly in the center of the tray. With his foot he pushed the tray toward the end of the featherbed and sat back, bringing Della to sit astride him. She arched her back and…someone gasped.

Della's eyes flew open immediately in panic. The gasp had been feminine but it hadn't been her.

* * *

Perry pulled up the sheet to cover Della and wrapped his arms protectively around her, his eyes locked onto something at the far end of the room. "Henny!"

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Henny cried, flinging her arms over her face and stumbling back toward the stair landing. "I'm sorry! I knocked and called but no one answered!" She clattered down the stairs much more noisily than the journey up. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but Mrs. Wyman has had an accident and probably needs to be taken to the hospital and she said you were out here Mr. Mason, and I thought you were sleeping because you didn't answer. I didn't know you weren't alone…" her voice trailed to nothing as she reached the bottom of the stairs and more than likely sprinted out the door and across the lawn back to the house.

Della felt a giggle building in her belly that they had been so enraptured of one another they couldn't hear Henny enter the apartment. Perry frowned at her as she began to shake with helpless laughter. "Laugh now, but I think that poor woman may be emotionally scarred for life, and quite possibly blinded."

Della collapsed against him in a fit of hysterical giggles. "I – I th-th-think you might b-be right about that," she agreed haltingly between titters. "Where is my robe? We should go see what that woman has done now."

Perry hoisted Della from his lap, got to his feet and reached back to help her up from the featherbed pallet on the floor. "Your robe is hanging on the bathroom door knob. Do what you need to do to make yourself presentable and come down. I'll go right now."

Before she could protest, he had snatched his robe from the floor and run from the apartment.

Della pawed through the pile of clothing on the floor at the foot of the featherbed for her panties and dashed to the tiny bathroom. Moments later she was tying the sash of her robe around her middle and running barefoot across the damp lawn to the house, where she found Perry in the kitchen with a hovering Henny and a piteously sobbing Eve Wyman who was seated in a kitchen chair, holding her left arm across her chest, rocking back and forth and refusing to allow Perry to see her injury.

"It's all your fault!" she screamed shrilly at him. "If you had been nice to me and made me a waffle this wouldn't have happened." She moaned, low and keening, and broke into fresh hysterical sobs.

"Mrs. Wyman, I fetched Mr. Mason because you said you'd let him look at your hand and decide whether or not you should go to the hospital." Henny wrung her hands, eyes darting in nervous embarrassment from Perry to Della.

"What happened, Mrs. Wyman? We can't help if we don't know what happened."

But Eve Wyman merely continued to rock to and fro, clutching her arm and crying.

"I think she burned her hand," Henny said in a hushed voice, as if saying it louder might cause the injured woman more distress. "But she wouldn't let me see."

Perry pulled another chair opposite Eve Wyman and placed his hands on her knees. "Mrs. Wyman…Eve…we want to help you. I'm sorry if you think whatever happened is my fault, but you really have to let me see your hand."

"If she burned her hand, why is there blood on the floor?" Della asked, moving around the opposite side of the table to the section of counter where the waffle iron sat, lid down. On the floor directly beneath it were the shattered remains of the pale green glass batter bowl surrounded by splatters of bloody batter as well as a smeared patch containing full footprints. A trail of blood and batter led to where Eve Wyman was now seated in the wooden chair.

Perry whipped his head back to Eve Wyman. "Eve, what happened? What did you do?"

"I tried to make myself a waffle because you wouldn't!" Eve Wyman screeched.

Perry slapped her face with the back of his hand. "Settle down. Tell us where you hurt yourself."

"There's blood all over the bottom of her negligee. She's literally sitting in a pool of her own blood for Heaven's sake," Della pointed out disgustedly.

Perry slapped Eve's face once again, harder than before, and she ceased her sobbing and rocking. "Stop slapping me," she hissed, eyes narrowed.

"Then cooperate so we can help you," he bit back harshly. "If you won't let me see your hand and feet, will you let Henny or Della?"

Eve Wyman slumped against the back of the chair. "I want Jameson. He's been nice to me."

Perry looked up at Henny, who shook her head. "He's at the mill. I can call, but he's with some people from a mill in New York. They came to see the sludge pits and were all outside when I left. They're going to have lunch here at one."

"Call him anyway," Perry instructed.

Henny hesitated a moment before moving over to the wall where the phone was mounted.

"Eve, we need to look at your feet. You're bleeding badly."

"My feet don't hurt. It's my hand!" She swayed woozily in the chair, her face suddenly deathly pale. "I don't feel well," she announced, and abruptly threw up on Perry.

* * *

After removing three large shards of jadeite glass from Eve Wyman's left foot and wrapping it tightly with strips cut from her grandmother's hand-embroidered dishcloths, Della turned her attention to the waffle patterned burn on both the palm and back of her mother's left hand. There were a couple of blisters forming on the palm, several angry red welts on the back of the hand, and the hand in general appeared to be swollen. Eve agreed to submerge it in cool water, but as soon as Della gently placed her injured hand in a bowl she screamed long and loud. Her arm jerked and the bowl shot across and over the edge of the table, falling to the floor with a crash and a splash. Henny hung up the phone and hurried to Della's side.

"Jameson will meet you at the hospital as soon as he can" she said, her eyes huge in her shiny, flushed face. "What do you want me to do?"

Eve had gone limp and Della was struggling to keep her upright in the chair and out of the stinky mess of blood, vomit, and waffle batter on the floor. "Help me hold her in a sitting position. I think she's passed out."

"She has not," Eve Wyman disagreed groggily.

"Then sit up straight Mrs. Wyman."

"I will if you call me Eve."

"There is no bargaining allowed, Mrs. Wyman. Either you sit up or I let you fall into this mess on the floor."

"Maybe I'll throw up on you, too."

"Oh for the love of Mike," Della exclaimed, using Paul Drake's and Perry's favorite phrases of exasperation. "Sit up, _**Eve**_."

"Do you notice it smells like whiskey in here? On top of the blood and vomit, I mean." Henny whispered urgently to Della as the two women managed to lift Eve into a sitting position.

"'Course it smells like whiskey," Eve piped up. "I had some. It helped."

"Helped what? Helped with the pain?"

Eve Wyman shook her head and paled once again. Della and Henny stepped quickly to either side of the injured woman. "With courage."

Perry entered the kitchen at that moment, freshly showered and dressed in khaki shorts, a black collared golf shirt, and sandals.

"She broke more glass," Della warned. "And she appears to be drunk."

Perry gingerly picked his way over the slippery tile floor to Eve Wyman's side once again. "Go get dressed, Della. Henny and I will take care of Eve."

Eve gave him a goofy, unfocused look. "He calls me Eve now, too," she said in a triumphant slur.

Della straightened, took one step, and slipped in the sticky, rancid fluids on the floor. She fell against the counter and knocked the waffle iron with her elbow. Expecting to feel a burn on her own arm, she was surprised to find it cool to the touch. "Perry," she began, dropping her eyes to the footprints in the batter on the floor.

But he was completely engrossed in examining the burn on Eve Wyman's hand while she sat in a virtual stupor. "Please get dressed, Della. We need to get Eve to the hospital. Henny, is there any gauze in the house?"

Della made her way to the door by holding on to the counter for support. At the doorway, she wiped her bare feet on the dishtowel Perry had used previously and took off for the stairs at a dead run. She had her robe off almost before closing the bathroom door and immediately turned on the faucet to run a few inches of water. She stepped in and took a quick 'bird bath', throwing water over her body before standing and wrapping herself in a towel. She then sat on the edge of the tub to furiously scrub her feet. The smell was incredible and she hoped good old Palmolive would mask the stench. Damn that woman anyway. What the hell was she still doing in the house anyway? If they didn't know already she was mentally unbalanced, this fiasco would have clued them in.

She crossed the hall to her bedroom and was glad she hadn't sent her old daisy skirt to the cleaners with the men's suits yesterday. She grabbed undergarments from the top drawer of the dresser, towel dried her skin vigorously, jumped into the skirt and knotted an oversize blouse she'd brought with her at her waist. The scuffed white flats weren't in her closet or anywhere in sight and she lost valuable seconds looking for them before finally dropping to her knees and pulling up the bedspread to find them underneath the bed. Eschewing stockings, make-up, and even a brush, she grabbed the large straw purse from Skogmo's, and several towels from the hall linen closet before heading down the hallway to the room her mother had been inhabiting. The room was a disaster of exploded suitcases, clothing carelessly strewn on every conceivable surface, and it took Della two full minutes to locate Eve's purse on a chair beneath a pile of what she hoped was clean underwear.

Perry was holding an unconscious Eve in his arms while Henny diligently cut several inches from the bottom of the woman's negligee with the kitchen shears used to destroy Katherine Street's dishtowels when Della re-entered the indescribably foul-smelling room. The odor knocked her back on her heels and her breakfast was perilously close to being added to the mess on the floor. She gripped the counter and steeled herself against the distasteful chore ahead of her.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"I daresay this in an anniversary we'll never forget no matter how hard we try." Perry, freshly showered and dressed in a clean pair of khaki shorts, a loose-fitting navy blue, white and tan short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and his new Converse sneakers, collapsed in the metal chair and reached out to take Della's hand. Eve had gotten sick all over him again as two orderlies at the hospital removed her from the back seat of the car and he stood holding the door open, necessitating his second shower of the morning. Despite the best efforts of a swarm of nurses and aids assisting him in cleaning up, his sandals were now in the burning barrel behind the garage along with Eve's ruined negligee and the ruined towels Henny had used to clean up the disgusting mess left behind from what had happened.

She gave him a quick smile and tangled her fingers with his loosely. Recently showered herself, she wore another of the $11.98 high school Home Economics sundresses, this one with a lightly gathered scoop bodice in a rusty red and cream check pattern and a band of red trim curving under the bust, a nipped waistline, and a very full skirt. The dress was simple but nicely made, and Perry thought she looked utterly charming sitting beneath the weeping willow. Her anniversary necklace matched the dress perfectly, and gave Della something to finger fretfully. "What did Paul have to say?"

"Pretty much only a meek 'yes sir' after I made it very clear how sadly lacking his report on your mother was and what information he'd better have for us damn soon. I don't understand how something like this could have slipped through."

"Perry, didn't Faulkner report she had a tendency to engage in destructive behavior?"

"He did, but that statement covers a broad spectrum of behavior. If she has a habit of injuring herself, we should have known about it before coming face-to-face with it as we did this morning."

"What if no one thought anything of her injuries, assuming there were any? What if we're all wet in thinking she purposely injures herself?" And why didn't you ask for details about Faulkner's statement, she thought traitorously.

Perry's face was all hard lines and frowning concentration. "We'll know about that later today," he replied shortly.

Della pulled her hand from his and wrapped her arms around her and shuddered as if suddenly chilled. "After all, it's only a suspicion I had since the waffle iron was cool to the touch and there were bloody footprints over by the cabinet where the liquor is kept." When she had pointed out this fact to Perry, they had both realized with sickening clarity that Eve Wyman must have injured herself with forethought.

"Everything adds up to Eve deliberately burning herself, Della. Stepping on the glass was probably an accident, as was miscalculating the amount of whiskey it would take to give her the courage to actually close the waffle iron on her hand, but it can't be any more obvious what happened was not an accident. Blame it on her mental problems if you'd like, but it doesn't take away from the fact she's very deliberate in her actions when she wants attention."

Della stared out over the lawn at the flower garden, a brilliant splash of color against the weathered grey privacy fence, and suffered a pang of regret that her grandmother wasn't there to enjoy the fruits of her diligent care. "It's not fair," she said.

"Very little in life is fair in general, but what specifically isn't?"

"Do you remember much about your father?"

"And you say I don't answer questions directly…yes, I remember quite a bit about him. Lyla didn't allow me to forget what I did remember."

"You have good memories of your parents."

"Far more good than bad, yes."

"It's not fair," she repeated. "Your parents loved you and did their best to raise you well, but they're not here. Neither of my parents loved me and contributed virtually nothing to my upbringing…and it's not fair. Your parents should still be alive and mine…" she couldn't finish her thought, one that simultaneously horrified her and made her incredibly sad. "I wish I could have met your mother and that you had never met mine."

"Della, she's your mother only by virtue of giving birth to you. As you said, she's had no part in your life, and if that's the way you want it going forward, that's your decision."

"Would your mother have liked me?"

"She would have loved you."

"She wouldn't have thought that as your secretary –"

"Della, my mother had no pretentions. She took people at face value. It's one of the greatest examples she set for me."

Della turned her gaze on Perry. "Stand back, I'm about to blurt something," she told him.

Perry chuckled with soft affection. "Warning me about it defeats the purpose, my love."

"I feel nothing for that woman. _**Absolutely nothing**__._ I've tried to summon up an emotion, but I can't. Shouldn't I feel something?"

"Only if you want to feel something, Della. As far as I know, there aren't any written rules for how someone should handle a situation like this."

"I would hope not enough people face a situation like this to require written rules," Della commented earnestly.

"It has been an interesting few days," Perry agreed with a chuckle.

"I'm glad _**you**_ can laugh about it," she said, slightly irritated because she couldn't.

"You'll laugh about it someday, too," he assured her.

"Miranda stole her grandmother's ruby starburst necklace and bracelet from this house."

Perry stared at her, stunned despite her earlier warning about blurting. "What?"

"Grandma Esther's gold starburst ruby necklace and bracelet, the pieces of jewelry Emmett couldn't find," she explained, her voice low and tinged with misery. "Remember how Miranda clutched her evening wrap up around her neck when we bumped into her and Peter at the club? She did it to hide the necklace and the bracelet. When I went back in to the dining room to get my wrap, I saw…I don't want to think of how she got the necklace because I can tell you with certainty that Grandmother didn't give it to her."

"Maybe your grandmother loaned it to her?"

Della shook her head. "No, she wouldn't have done that, either. Not even for Miranda, who she considered the perfect granddaughter."

"Wouldn't she have begrudged the jewelry only to Mr. and Mrs. Allensworth? After all, it was they who didn't uphold the bargain with Esther, not Miranda."

Della shook her head. "It wouldn't have mattered to Grandmother. She saw things very simply, and a deal was a deal. What should I do?"

"Who do you want to answer that question?"

"You. I want you to answer that question, not my attorney."

"Stick with the original plan," he said quickly and decisively. "You were happy with the decisions you made and from a selfish standpoint I benefit greatly from it, so the last thing I want are any changes to be made."

"Even after that woman threw up on you twice?"

"_**Especially**_ after that woman threw up on me twice." He reached out and ran his finger down her arm. "I have a confession to make. The more I've gotten to know your mother, the less I think she resembles you, but when the doctor told Eve she had to have a tetanus shot and your father and I had to restrain her, I got a glimpse of what she must have been like when she was younger, and what I saw reminded me of you."

"Since I wasn't in the room at the time, should I be offended?"

"Not at all. She's stubborn and independent, much like a secretary with whom I'm well acquainted. But she's also royally messed up, because her coping mechanisms aren't as developed as yours."

"But you hate my coping mechanisms," she pointed out, grudgingly fascinated but nevertheless perplexed by his observations, unwilling to point out that her mother was as unbalanced mentally as a young woman as she was at the present time.

Perry heaved a huge sigh. "I don't hate anything about you, Della. If I ever used that word, I apologize."

"From here on out hate will be an emotion reserved for anyone who harms children, ugly Victorian pianos, and broccoli," Della declared.

"And the New York Yankees," Perry added very seriously.

Della laughed out loud. "And the Yankees," she amended.

Perry stood and stretched. "Why don't you stay out here and mull over what you want to do in regard to your mother and Miranda while I go inside and scrounge up something for lunch? It's almost one o'clock."

"Anything but fried chicken and potato salad," she called after his retreating back.

* * *

Perry rummaged around in the refrigerator and managed to cobble together a salad of freshly picked leaf lettuce, hard-boiled eggs, crumbled bleu cheese, red onion, and thin slices of London broil. For a dressing he combined home-made cider vinegar and oil in a crystal cruet and placed it on the very same tray he had used to carry Della's waffles to her earlier that morning, which Henny must have retrieved from the caretaker's apartment, bless her overly efficient soul. There were loaves of crusty French bread stacked on the counter and he helped himself to a loaf, as well as a plate of butter. Two tall glasses of iced tea joined everything on the tray and he nodded, pleased with the meal.

"That looks good."

Perry looked up in surprise to find Jameson Street standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a wooden box in his arms. "Della likes salad in the summer," he said a trifle lamely, for some odd reason feeling as if he needed to explain the food on the tray.

"You know my daughter well."

"I knew from the instant I met her she was worth knowing well. I can't believe you've known her a lifetime and never realized it."

Jameson Street moved into the room and placed the box on the table. He waved away Perry's pointed remark. "Here's the proof."

Perry knit his brows. "Proof? Proof of what?"

"I told you I had proof my mother cared about Della," Jameson replied with impatience. He placed his hands on the wooden chest and lifted the lid.

Perry leaned over to peer into the box and nearly gasped aloud. Staring at him was a framed picture of an infant Della, dark hair cascading down her back in soft curls, arms flung in the air above her head, a huge smile on her face, big eyes sparkly with pure delight.

"She was ten months old in that picture," Jameson told him. "Evie would ask her how big she was and she would throw her hands in the air and giggle…she was a beautiful baby. Everyone commented on how much hair she had."

"Yes," Perry croaked, totally enthralled by the visage of the smiling baby who was now the woman he loved.

"Evie called her 'pretty girl' almost as much as she called her by her name. Her first word was 'pretty'. As a matter of fact, she said it right after this picture was taken. She pointed to herself and said '_pre-ta'_. Then she pointed to Evie and repeated it. At ten months old she understood the concept of prettiness." He shook his head as if in disbelief of the memory. "Everything was '_pre-ta'_. The painting of flowers in the parlor, the sun as it sparkled on the snow, the cardinals that came to the bird feeder, the mangy stray cat Evie let into the house." He reached into the box and removed the photo. Beneath it was a tiny pink dress, an exquisitely knitted sweater and matching bonnet, a folded square of fabric edged with satin, a pair of scuffed white baby shoes with bells tied to the laces, and a coat made from the softest wool. Jameson laid out everything on the kitchen table for Perry to see. "This is the dress she's wearing in the picture. Esther made it, as well as the coat. My mother crocheted the sweater and the bonnet."

Perry was silent, still overcome by the photograph.

"Mother saved all of her school pictures, her reports cards, pictures she drew, and even all the birthday cards Della gave her." Jameson pawed through the remaining contents of the box. "Here are all her piano and dance programs, her first place ribbons for spelling down the school two years in a row…" he suddenly straightened and pushed the small wooden chest away from him. "Mr. Mason, I want you to give it to Della."

Perry cleared his throat. "Mr. Street, you should give this to Della yourself."

Jameson shook his head. "No, I want you to. And I want you to tell her that her grandmother cared. She'll believe you. She won't believe me."

Perry picked up the framed photo and stared at it, a lump in his throat. Those three little girls, the babies Della said weren't meant to be...would they have looked like the beautiful, laughing baby in the picture? He closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. "All right. I'll give it to her." He put the photo back down on the table and picked up the tray. "I'd also like to arrange to have her great-grandmother's trunk and the slipper chairs from her bedroom shipped to L.A. Oh, and a couple of featherbeds she's partial to."

"Of course, whatever she wants. It all does belong to her."

Perry listened very carefully to Della's father but detected no bitterness in his words, just simple acceptance. "We won't take anything without asking you first." He turned to leave but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Mr. Mason, thank you for taking care of Evie this morning. I should have insisted that she stay with Bitty, but I think by now you've figured out what a weak man I am. Since the failure of my last marriage I've tried to avoid confrontation with women since I generally come out on the losing end of those confrontations. Evie is particularly difficult to deal with as you well know."

Perry met the man's empty eyes over his shoulder. "She's a very attractive woman."

Jameson Street let out a little sigh. "Yes, she is. But unfortunately she hasn't changed much in the past twenty-five years. Her behavior is still predictably unpredictable. You must suspect that what happened to her this morning was no accident."

"I'm suspicious of most things," Perry replied carefully, "it's a hazard of my trade."

"I can tell you without reservation she deliberately burned herself. She used to hurt herself whenever she didn't get her way – fingers pinched in drawers, stubbed toes, sprained ankles, that sort of thing. I'm afraid I reinforced such behavior by giving in to whatever it was she wanted. This is the worst injury I've witnessed. I have a theory as to why she did it, but I'm not absolutely certain."

"I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count." Perry turned back to fully confront Jameson and set the tray back down on the table. Guilt stabbed at him for laying into Paul about Eve Wyman's penchant for harming herself when it was he who told him not to interview Jameson Street.

Jameson Street visibly wilted in front of Perry Mason. "I was afraid of that."

"What do you know of her life since she left?"

"Very little. But you know quite a bit, don't you, Mr. Mason?"

"I had her investigated," he replied cagily.

"Evie says you're a tight-lipped s.o.b." Jameson flashed one of his all-too-brief smiles.

"If you're speaking with your ex-wife and want information, why don't you just ask her?"

"Because she wouldn't tell me the truth...and maybe I really don't want to know. I've watched her around you Mr. Mason, and it's brought back some memories I'd rather not relive. I'll let her stay for only as long as you and Della are here, and then I'll insist she leave." He jabbed his finger at the photograph on the table. "I want Evie to be the young woman who laid on the floor in the parlor, asking our daughter how big she was so she could take that picture. She's not, and I'm responsible for what she's become."

"I believe your mother shares some culpability in that," Perry observed. "And let's not forget her mental state."

"I don't need you to excuse any part of what I did to Evie. There is no excuse. There is only shame and regret. Certainly in regard to Evie, but mostly in regard to Della."

"It's not too late. You could have a relationship with Della."

Jameson Street shook his head slowly. "No, Mr. Mason, I burned that bridge too. I'm not going to ask for something she doesn't want and can't give."

"Talk to her," Perry urged. "She'll tell you what she thinks in language that would make an old sailor blush, but in the end it will be worth it. She's quite remarkable."

Jameson Street's sad smile reached almost all the way across his mouth before disappearing. "I'm glad she has you as her champion and protector, Mr. Mason. Despite what you may think, I do want what's best for my daughter." He extended his hand. "I have business associates in the dining room waiting for me to begin our luncheon meeting. Since there are no suitable restaurants anywhere near, Mother always insisted upon preparing lunch herself here at the house. But I wanted to give you this now before things get any more complicated."

Perry took the man's proffered hand and shook it. "Think about what I said, Mr. Street."

"I've had twenty-five years to think, Mr. Mason. It's best this way for Della." He took a step back then stopped as a thought occurred to him. "Since the mill belongs to Della, maybe the two of you should join us for the meeting."

"No, I don't think we'll involve ourselves in anything until after the meeting tomorrow with Jeremy Brandis."

"You are a tight-lipped s.o.b.," Jameson Street said with obvious admiration.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Della finished tying the halter top of the charity sundress in a neat bow at the back of her neck, buckled the patent belt taken from the daffodil yellow wiggle dress and stepped into the patent leather peep-toe pumps. This was her favorite of the four dresses purchased at _Skogmo's_, a pin-up Rockabilly with an elongated waist in a bold black and white polka dot pattern, '_Sewn With Love by Carol'_ as the label proclaimed. The halter tie was long and wide and trailed down her bare back, the drop-waist especially flattered her willowy figure, and the brushed cotton fabric swished alluringly around her calves as she walked. It was only eight-thirty in the morning and already it was nearly eighty degrees, but it wasn't supposed to get much warmer, as clouds were expected to move in, bringing with them a scant possibility of much-needed rain. She snatched her cat charm bracelet from the dresser and hurried from the room and down the stairs to meet with Jeremy Brandis to go over everything before the meeting at three o'clock that afternoon.

As she hit the last step, the doorbell rang, and in her haste to answer the door, bumped into Perry as he exited the parlor. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, and raked his eyes up and down her slender height. "This dress is not staying at the lake house," he told her in a tone that brooked no argument. "It comes to Los Angeles with us."

She laughed a trifle nervously, covering the deep V of the neckline with one hand. "It's my favorite, too," she replied to his commanding compliment. "You don't think it's a bit much for the occasion, do you?"

"You could wear that pink poodle skirt and saddle shoes and it would be fine for the occasion." He held her close and kissed her as the doorbell rang again. "Ready for this?"

Before she could answer, Jameson Street emerged from the parlor. "I thought you were going to answer the door, Mason," he began irritably. "Oh, I'm…I'll…carry on."

Della laughed again, her nervousness evaporating at her father's discomfort. "It's just a good morning kiss, Father."

The doorbell rang a third time and Jameson Street headed toward the door. "If it's just a kiss, then why are his hands on your backside?" He tossed back tartly.

Perry pulled his hands from Della's hips and held them up in front of him with a huge grin. "Sorry about that," he said, managing to sound contrite. "They slipped."

Della's father shook his head and 'harrumphed' as he yanked open the heavy carved door, revealing Jeremy Brandis and a young dark-haired woman standing on the porch. Jameson thrust his hand out to the attorney. "Jameson Street."

Taken aback by the abrupt opening of the door and terse greeting, Jeremy Brandis managed to grasp the older man's hand in a firm handshake. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Street. Jeremy Brandis. And this is my secretary, Miss Marilyn Grabinski."

Jameson Street stepped back and motioned the attorney and his secretary into the house. "Please come in, Mr. Brandis. If Mr. Mason is done groping my daughter maybe you can get this show on the road. I have to go to the mill, but I'll be back, and I expect the meeting to start on time."

* * *

"He's a bit conventional," Della said apologetically as her father exited the house, leaving the two attorneys and their secretaries standing in the entryway. "And he embellishes."

"My hands slipped," Perry explained. He bowed to Marilyn Grabinski. "Perry Mason. And this is my secretary Della Street. We're pleased to meet you, Miss Grabinski. I assure you I will keep complete control of my hands henceforth."

Marilyn Grabinski smiled broadly. "I'm honored to meet you both. Jeremy hasn't stopped talking about the two of you since your appointment. I was disappointed I couldn't be there, but I've been fighting a summer cold and it got the better of me that day."

They closed themselves in Jameson Street's den to go over Della's decisions regarding her grandmother's estate, and Marilyn quickly typed up a couple of tweaks and one major adjustment to the original plan on the portable typewriter she'd brought. Shortly before ten o'clock, there was a knock on the door and Henny poked her head in to ask if anyone would like coffee. Since Emmett Childers was due at ten to go over his role in probating Katherine Street's estate going forward, they took a short break until he arrived.

At eleven forty-five Henny once again knocked on the study door, this time to announce that Mr. Henry Brocton, Jeremy's partner and corporate specialist had arrived bearing a lunch of sandwiches, cole slaw, and French fried potatoes from _Judy's Diner_. They ate in the dining room on her grandmother's finest china, which gave Della and Perry an opportunity to get to know Hank, as he insisted they call him, and become quite comfortable with him playing a part in the execution of the plan in regard to the mill.

By two-forty enough of the legalities, contingencies, forms, contracts, and documents had been completed to draw a nearly simultaneous sigh of satisfaction from everyone in the study. As Marilyn efficiently placed the last piece of paper in its designated folder and put the lid back on the portable typewriter she'd brought, Della stood and moved to one of the windows that overlooked the curving driveway. She parted the curtains and leaned her head against the glass, thankful for the cool breeze being generated by the gentle rain that had begun falling during lunch. Perry unbent his long frame from a leather wing chair and joined her, his hands gently massaging her hunched up shoulders. She closed her eyes as his long fingers worked their magic.

"It's all over but the shouting," Perry whispered in her ear encouragingly. "We'll be almost to the lake by this time tomorrow."

"Careful your hands don't slip again, Perry," Jeremy cautioned, winking at Marilyn.

"Not a chance, Jeremy," Perry replied snappily. "Della's father and brother just pulled into the driveway. And right behind them is a woman I don't recognize."

"It must be June, my stepmother," Della said without opening her eyes. "She's the only original invitee you haven't met. She's early to everything."

"Well, what say we all take a break and then get this show on the road, as your father said." Jeremy rose from his chair and stretched cramped muscles. "Do you think Miss Vander Velde made a fresh pot of coffee?"

* * *

The parlor furniture had been arranged similarly to the meeting called previously by Emmett Childers for the reading of Katherine Street's will, and Della felt a bit self-conscious to be seated behind her grandmother's desk in the position of power. 'The gang', as Perry had dubbed them, as well as a few additional invitees, were making themselves comfortable on the perfectly preserved antique couches and chairs that arced around the gathering of attorneys and legal secretaries, all of whom were seated on straight-backed dining room chairs. Della marveled at the legal prowess surrounding her, cognizant of the astounding hourly rates charged by each, and had a fleeting thought that such a high-powered team might be over-kill in the matter at hand. That is until she caught the rancorous look directed at her by Miranda Allensworth, the oldest friend she had on earth, and suddenly four attorneys didn't seem enough by half. Sometimes it felt good to Lord your position or connections over certain people. Now was one of those times.

She glanced down at the stack of neatly typed notes contained in a folder marked 'MILL' and realized she didn't recognize any of the words, and wondered if Marilyn Grabinski had typed up everything in Polish. Squeezing her eyes shut momentarily brought the letters into greater focus, but her brain still couldn't decipher anything as English. A rhythmic noise filled the relative quiet of the room until Perry reached out and covered her hand with his, stopping her from tapping a pencil on the leather inlay of the desk top.

Her eyes flew to his as he removed the pencil from her fingers and then lifted her hand to his lips. Knowing he was beside her, that he loved her and supported what she was about to do brought what she was about to do into crisp clarity. He would never allow her to do anything not in her best interest, and it was confidence in what they were together that had guided her decisions in regard to her inheritance first and foremost.

Perry's kiss on the back of her hand was a feathery caress that nonetheless sent an electric shock of desire directly to her core, and quickly spread to the tips of her fingers and toes. When this was over, she vowed to take him as far away as possible from her grandmother's lifeless house with its painfully restrained memories and even more painfully restrained inhabitants, and with unrestrained enthusiasm would show him exactly how much she appreciated his affection for her.

Della gently extricated her hand from Perry's and stood to face the assemblage of people from her past, most of whom were attempting to disguise their curiosity behind either studiously bored or elaborately perturbed expressions. She knew everyone in the room fairly well, save for one invitee, but when she looked out at them only estrangement and a life left behind were reflected. There was a twinge of sadness at this realization but she couldn't let regrets, real or imagined, override what she had to do.

"Good afternoon," she greeted everyone, her voice well-modulated, firm and assured. "I know you're all very busy, and I greatly appreciate the time you're giving me today. I thought holding the meeting here at the house would be less confrontational than requiring everyone to congregate in a law office. There will be no long-winded preamble to the business at hand, but I will necessarily introduce the gentlemen seated behind me and outline their roles in my decisions regarding the estate of Katherine Street. I would appreciate it if you would all hold your questions and comments until the end of…well, I suppose you could call it an addendum to Grandmother's will."

She paused and turned to her left. "Most of you have met my employer and personal attorney, Perry Mason. Mr. Mason is not licensed to practice law in this state, and since his specialty is worlds away from estate law, I have retained Mr. Jeremy Brandis, a partner in the firm of Brandis, Blandings, and Brocton to function in that capacity. Mr. Brandis will oversee the entire probate process and act as my fully empowered proxy in the matter. Seated next to Mr. Brandis is his secretary Miss Marilyn Grabinski, who drew up mountains of paperwork to facilitate the unorthodox nature of the proceedings today with great efficiency. You all know Emmett Childers, my grandmother's personal attorney for nearly forty years. Mr. Childers has been retained to lend his knowledge of the estate to Mr. Brandis, and to continue an inventory of catalogued items provided by Grandmother herself."

Involuntarily her eyes shifted to Miranda, who stared back at her stony-faced.

"The gentleman seated next to Mr. Childers in Henry Brocton, a partner as well in the firm of Brandis, Blandings, and Brocton. To explain Mr. Brocton's presence is to necessarily address my decisions in regard to _Milliron Corrugated_."

Perry sat back in his chair, silently marveling at Della's composure. The glimmers of unease he had noticed in the hours since their initial meeting with Jeremy Brandis were nowhere to be seen. She spoke with clear authority, and her audience had no misunderstanding as to who was in charge. Even Miranda sat in rapt attention to her concise words.

"As I have no desire to either own or operate a paper mill, I am gifting it to those who do. My father Jameson and brother Carter shall become majority owners, splitting sixty percent of currently issued shares. I ask in return that my father remain as President and CEO, positions for which he is eminently qualified, and that my brother be removed as Administrative Vice President, a position he has performed admirably, but one which he does not favor."

There was a gasp from Henny, who simultaneously clapped one hand over her mouth in shock and grabbed Carter's arm with the other.

Della let a small smile cross her lips. "Instead, I wish for Carter to create and step into the position of Operations and Development Vice President, working with Gale Shaffer to keep _Milliron Corrugated_ at the forefront of production innovation and systems."

Huge tears rolled down Henny's shiny, flushed cheeks as she continued to squeeze Carter's arm. Carter was slack-jawed, stunned by Della's caveats to ownership of the mill. He swiveled his head to look at Henny as comprehension dawned that his sister and his unofficial fiancée must have been talking to one another about him.

"Also in accepting controlling shares of the mill, Jameson and Carter will without delay or argument discharge the current legal firm of Pierce, Goodwin and retain Mr. Henry Brocton of Brandis, Blandings, and Brockton as head counsel. Mr. Brocton is a stellar corporate attorney, and _Milliron Corrugated _will benefit immediately from considerable monetary savings, as well as in the long run from his dedication and experience in local manufacturing."

Jameson Street gulped and shot a glance at his son, who at this point was paying close attention to Henny, patting her hand and gently wiping away her tears, his expression that of a man freed, of a man truly seeing the woman beside him for the first time.

Della paused to take in the happiness on Henny's face and the almost befuddled expression of her brother's with satisfaction. "The remaining forty percent of ownership shares will be divided as follows." She dropped her eyes to Marilyn's neatly typed notes which now appeared to be in English, but she didn't really need to read from them. "Mae Kirby shall receive ten percent, Eve Wyman ten percent, Elizabeth Sherwood five percent, and Perry Mason five percent."

Perry fought to contain his surprise by brushing imaginary lint from his pants leg. How had Della and Jeremy kept this from him during their meetings? Since she was the beneficiary of all that was his, the shares would eventually find their way back to her, but his unexpected inclusion in the gifting pleased him immensely. And he looked forward with great anticipation to properly expressing his profound gratitude at her generosity.

Eve Wyman opened her mouth to speak, but Della's frown and pointed stare caused her to rethink the action. She clamped her mouth shut and the practiced pout she put on whenever reality fell short of her expectations pulled unbecomingly at her features.

"_Milliron Corrugated_ has been and shall continue to be a privately held, family-run business. Shares assigned to Mae Kirby, Eve Wyman, and Elizabeth Sherwood total the percentage of shares allotted my maternal grandfather Bruce Sherwood for certain monies invested following the stock market crash. As I understand it, the money was a loan, the shares a form of collateral, and after the loan was repaid dividends would be issued for a period of two years on said shares as interest. The agreement stated that if Bruce Sherwood's death preceded the completion of the investment contract, all shares would revert to Katherine Street – an element of the contract I find appalling, by the way. Upon Bruce's death, Katherine repealed twenty percent of the shares, gifting ten percent to Mae, and continued to pay dividends to Bitty. However, payments ceased following a serious family incident one year later. By that time Eve had forfeited her shares and all claims to Street money in a divorce from Jameson, which left Mae in possession of the only shares not held by Katherine."

Della paused to take a deep breath. Even though she had been old enough to understand much of what transpired during her Aunt Mae's marriage to Garrett Kirby, the discovery of a tragic miscarriage had sent her reeling – mostly because Aunt Mae had never mentioned it to her. The one relative who truly loved her had held onto the same secrets as everyone else, and as painful as that betrayal of trust might be, she still owed it to Mae to put Garrett Kirby in his place. "Mr. Kirby, by all accounts you were less than an ideal husband to Mae and refusing to grant her a divorce unless she relinquished her shares of _Milliron Corrugated_ was despicable." She placed her hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, eyes dark with emotion as she held his gaze from his seat on the red velvet couch. "A requirement to accepting these gifted shares is that they cannot be sold to anyone not born with the last name Street, so there is no way you will ever acquire additional shares. It sickens me that dividends will be paid to you, and that you will have the right to attend board meetings, but part of Mr. Brocton's duties will be to monitor your behavior in regard to the mill and to make damn certain you have no influence whatsoever in regard to its operation. I hope I'm clear on this."

She straightened and shared pointed looks with her mother, her father, her brother, her Grandma Bitty, and finally, Perry. He broke into an exceptionally pleased grin when she winked at him.

"This is outrageous," Garrett Kirby sputtered with great indignation, getting to his feet. "If you think you'll get away with this travesty, little girl, think again. My own team of lawyers will be attending each and every board meeting with me. They'll tie so many knots in the proceedings Mr. Brocton will have to cut them out with whatever deals I put forth in order to keep the mill afloat."

"Garrett!" Bitty Sherwood's normally thin voice was a veritable bark. "Unless you want the entire county, your business partners, and all those high-powered politicians you pal around with to find out what really happened the night Mae lost her baby, you'll think twice about threatening Della. I came across that picture of Lydia in nothing but a sheet outside the motel – she was quite lovely back then, but I really don't think she would be very happy to find her picture in every newspaper in the state, do you? And shall I even bother to mention how what you and Lydia did will affect your son? He's a bit frail, isn't he?"

"You bitch," Garrett said in a low voice quavering with anger. "You leave my family out of this."

"You dragged them into this when you – well, you know what you did, Garrett. Both Jameson and I know what you did as well, and old transgressions aside, I think he'll back me on this." Bitty settled herself deeper into the couch Garrett Kirby had just abandoned. "Won't you, Jameson?"

Jameson Street nodded. "I came across that very same picture myself the other day. The lighting is very flattering to both you and Lydia."

Garrett Kirby's face had turned almost purple with rage, arms held stiff at his sides, fists balled so tightly the knuckles were almost colorless. He made an inarticulate choking noise, turned on his heel, and fairly ran from the parlor.

All present waited expectantly for the front door to slam, and when they were rewarded with a resounding bang, everyone let out relieved breaths simultaneously.

"Good riddance to that pompous heap of dung," Lawrence Allensworth voiced the communal thought aloud.

Bitty Sherwood sat forward so she could see Lawrence, who was seated on the love seat to the side and slightly behind the couch. "You can say pile of shit, Lawrence. I won't be offended."


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Della seated herself behind her grandmother's writing desk and allowed a few moments for the remaining invitees to settle down following the unpleasantness involving Garrett Kirby before clearing her throat. Who had decided that the universal attention-getter would be the clearing of a throat? She wished she could think of a better way to segue into the next portion of the meeting, but rapping her knuckles on the desk or clapping her hands didn't appeal to her so she inevitably fell back on the tried and true method.

"I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I say I heartily agree with Mr. Allensworth, and especially with Grandma Bitty. Some of you are aware of my penchant for a good expletive." She managed to keep a straight face as Perry choked on a chuckle, attempting to disguise it as a cough.

There was polite laughter as attention once again centered on Della. She closed the file labeled 'MILL' and opened a file marked 'HOUSE', but hardly glanced at the typed contents. "If you have concerns regarding the disposition of _Milliron Corrugated_ shares, Mr. Brocton assures me he will be available day and night to answer questions. A stack of his business cards are in front of me on the desk."

Another titter of laughter passed through the assemblage as Hank Brocton's eyebrows shot up comically in reaction to the words 'available day and night'. Della turned and smiled sweetly at him before continuing.

"Learning that Grandmother had left her entire estate to me was a tremendous shock to say the least as I thought I had made it clear my life was going to be lived elsewhere. Trust me, being saddled with the mill, this house, and Grandmother's unfinished business was the last thing I wanted or expected. I resented what she had inexplicably done to me, and no amount of agonizing over why she had done it gave me any peace. Her written explanations were hurtful and confusing, and only served to deepen my resentment."

Della paused. Everyone she had invited to hear her out about the disposition of Katherine Street's estate sat before her in curious silence, anxious for her every word. She picked up the pencil Perry had taken from her earlier and rolled it in her fingers as a little crease of concentration appeared between her eyes. "Leaving everything to me was misguided and unfair – to me and to all of you. It caused a lot of uncertainty and as I crashed headlong into secrets that had been kept from me my entire life, all I wanted to do was run away back to Los Angeles. But someone who looks out for me and is well acquainted with my habit of running away wouldn't let me run from this. He's the reason Los Angeles is my home now, and he's also the reason I'm giving the house to my father."

There were murmurs of surprise from her audience and all eyes shifted to an urbane Perry Mason and then to Jameson Street. Della's father's arms rested on his knees, hands dangling, head bowed. He was completely motionless until abruptly raising his head. Weary grey eyes held hers for a moment in gratitude before shifting uncomfortably downward once again.

She had never known warmth and affection from her father, and consoled herself with that brief connection as the contempt in which she had held him evaporated. Accepting him for the grim, broken man he was stirred a deep sadness within her for the unhappy life he'd lived filled with women who'd used and abandoned him in one way or another. By giving him the house, she hoped to give him some semblance of self-worth.

"I have no attachment to this house, Father," she said quietly. "Keep it, sell it, or burn it to the ground. I don't care."

"Thank you," Jameson Street replied humbly, head still bowed.

Della bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Now was not the time to get emotional about her emotionless father exhibiting a flicker of humility. She had made her decisions, and those decisions did not include any sort of reconciliation with her family. She couldn't and wouldn't allow herself to be tied to this place any longer. "When I say the house is now my father's, I mean the house, the outbuildings, and all contents contained therein, just as Grandmother handed everything to me."

"What about my jewelry?" Miranda demanded, voice pitched high with indignation, scooting forward on her chair. Peter Stanton, officially uninvited but allowed to stay after Della held a quick whispered conference with her legal advisors, reached out and tried to get her to sit back, but she slapped his hand away almost viciously. "**_My_** grandmother promised her jewelry to me. It's mine and I want it right now."

Della regarded Miranda with coldly glittering eyes. "I believe I requested that questions and comments be held until I was finished."

"I kept quiet during your sickeningly pious and noble gestures made toward your father and brother as you gave them back what was already theirs. It's time for you to stop stalling and give me back what is and has always been rightfully mine. I have better things to do today than listen to you."

"Rightfully yours, Miranda? When did you attend law school? There are four respected, experienced attorneys seated in this room who agree the jewelry you claim as yours was legally the property of my grandmother. And once the estate is probated it will belong to me to do with as I please."

"If it doesn't legally belong to you yet," Miranda replied acidly, "isn't this dog and pony show you're putting on today counting your chickens before they're hatched? There are other lawyers, you know, and I'll hire one. You shouldn't be allowed to steal someone else's property."

"Miss Allensworth," Perry said, his rich courtroom voice filling the large space of the parlor commandingly, "the estate has already been submitted for probate. Considering that you are not related to Katherine Street, were not specifically named in her will, and the only documentation regarding the jewelry in question is a legal document of sale to Mrs. Street, I doubt you would find a judge willing to grant an injunction. Why don't you sit back and allow Miss Street to continue."

"Why don't you mind your own damn business," Miranda suggested, leveling a scornful gaze at Perry. "It must gall you to no end that your girlfriend gave away the mill and the house and all you got was a lousy five percent interest. The only thing of value left is my grandmother's jewelry and I think you'd say anything to keep me from throwing a monkey wrench into your perfect little scheme. Well, I won't give up. I'll stop the probate. You'll see."

"Miranda, let it rest," her father spoke up sharply. "Esther sold her jewelry to Katherine. Your mother and I were aware of what she was doing, and we were aware of what we were doing when we stopped paying on the contract after she died."

"You said you were going to pay off the contract!" Miranda wailed.

Lawrence Allensworth shook his head. "I had no business promising to write Della a check because I don't have that kind of money. The house is mortgaged to the hilt, the car is seven years old, your mother has no jewelry, and there is virtually nothing in savings. What I did…Tony…it nearly ruined me financially…I'll probably never be able to retire. I tried to give Della a small payment and work out a plan to pay off the debt, but she refused it."

"Sh-she _**refused**_ it?" Miranda sputtered in furious disbelief. "I'm not getting what belongs to me because you're a pervert and Della is greedy? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Miranda," her mother began in a tired, defeated voice. "Don't say such things. You and Larry had every advantage growing up despite your father's...indiscretion. You're an adult now, and still we tried to give you what you want. But the well is dry.

Miranda's face had gone deathly pale. "Larry and I don't have an inheritance because Daddy gave it all to his bastard son? What about his _**real**_ children? Didn't you think about us at all when you made that deal with the Domenico's? How could you sell our futures like that?"

"Your father and I weren't rich back then by any means," her mother said with a catch in her voice. "We had the farm and a few thousand in savings is all. We sold the land and all the horses and gave what we could to the Domenico's to raise Tony as their own child, and to keep Daddy out of jail Grandma sold her jewelry to Katherine. You don't know the whole story, Miranda, or why I forgave him for what he'd done. He's been a good father and you need to forgive him."

"How can I possibly forgive him? I work in a _**bar,**_ Mother. A _**bar**_. My hair smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke and every day some drunk gropes me _**because I work in a bar**__!_ That's what Daddy did to me, so don't you dare tell me to forgive him."

"So because you work in a bar you thought you could take your grandmother's jewelry out of this house?" Della asked.

Miranda whipped her head around to face Della, eyes narrowed. "You aren't any better than me just because you're a secretary and I work in a bar."

"I never said I was better than you, Miranda. Please answer my question."

"You're crazy," Miranda charged, eyes still narrowed. "Like mother like daughter."

Della sighed and calmly folded her hands in front of her on the desk top, surprised that Eve Wyman didn't register an objection to Miranda's words. "Let me rephrase the question. Miranda, when and how did you come into possession of the ruby starburst necklace and bracelet that Mr. Childers confirms should be in a box at the back of my grandmother's closet?"

"She shouldn't have kept my jewelry in her closet," Miranda replied, still refusing to answer Della's question. "If she was going to withhold it illegally from me she should have put it in a safety deposit box at the bank."

"Miss Allensworth," Jeremy Brandis began, but closed his mouth abruptly after Della shot him a frowning glance.

"Maybe she should have," Della agreed. "You've visited this house on a weekly basis practically since you were born, haven't you? With your grandmother while she was alive and then on your own after she passed away. Why did you continue to visit my grandmother, Miranda? It certainly wasn't out of any great affection."

"I can't believe how you came barreling into town with your designer clothes and smug attitude about how important you are because your boss is sort of famous," Miranda mumbled. Her eyes were now fully open and filling with panic. Her face was still pale, and beads of perspiration had formed on her forehead. She touched the back of her hand to her face as pink spots appeared high on each cheek.

"This is a Home Ec charity dress, Miranda," Della told her coldly, indicating the boldly patterned sundress. "Everything I've worn during my visit was bought right here in town. Why won't you answer my questions? Do they make you uncomfortable?"

"Just what are you accusing me of, Del? Get to the point."

"That's what I've been trying to do. Just answer my questions."

"What is it you'd like me to tell you?"

"I would like you to tell me why your grandmother's ruby starburst necklace and bracelet are no longer in this house."

Instead of answering, Miranda got to her feet and waved her arm at Della in a sweeping gesture. "You all heard her. In a room full of witnesses, including a bunch of lawyers, that woman has accused me of stealing. If that weren't bad enough, she accused me of stealing something that's mine already. How do we know the necklace and bracelet are actually missing? Just because she says they are doesn't mean it's true."

"I saw you wearing the necklace and bracelet at the club Tuesday night Miranda," Della said evenly. "How did you get them?"

"Answer the bloody question already so we can get out of here." Peter Stanton said irritably, grabbing Miranda by the arm and hauling her back into her chair. "I can't leave Marv alone behind the bar for much longer."

"Yes Miranda, answer the question," her father directed.

Miranda sat up straight in her chair. "Grandmother Katherine gave them to me. She told me I could pick out anything I wanted for my thirtieth birthday."

"No she didn't," Emmett Childers entered the conversation, shaking his head vehemently. "Katherine left a very detailed listing of her belongings. I personally assisted her with the inventory just three months ago and if I recall correctly, your birthday was two months ago. If she had decided to give you anything following that inventory, she would have contacted me."

"Well, she must have forgotten to contact you," Miranda said dismissively.

"Katherine wouldn't have forgotten," Emmett insisted.

"You can't be certain of that, Mr. Childers. She was eighty-seven years old after all."

"Even at eighty-seven my mother's mind was sharper than anyone's in this room," Jameson Street entered the fray. "You yourself commented on how she hadn't lost a step mentally. She wouldn't have forgotten something like that. And she wouldn't have given you that jewelry."

"Well she should have!" Miranda cried, gripping the arms of the velvet wing chair. "It was mine. She should have just given it to me. I wanted it, but she was so mean…if she had just given it to me she wouldn't have – " she suddenly stopped talking, eyes wide with panic.

"She wouldn't have what, Miranda?" Della prompted, exchanging a quick look with Perry so similar to looks they exchanged regularly in the courtroom.

Miranda was deeply distressed; her face flushed a dark red as she struggled to regain some semblance of composure. "She…I didn't do anything, I swear to God I didn't! She tried to follow me up the stairs."

"Oh Miranda," Della whispered.

For a moment no one said a word as the import of what Miranda was saying sunk in, and then Sarah Allensworth gave a heart-wrenching sob of utter despair and buried her face in her hands.

"She tried to follow me up the stairs," Miranda repeated dully. "She shouldn't have, not with that bad hip. She was hollering at me, and tried to hit me with her cane. I ran up the stairs to her bedroom…and I heard a thud. She was lying on the landing and I couldn't tell if she was breathing or not. I was scared and didn't know what to do. Just then Henny rang the doorbell and called out like she always does before using her key to unlock the front door. I went out the back door and snuck around to where I'd left my bike in the bushes – I can't afford a car because I work in a _**bar**_ – and high-tailed it home."

Della sought Perry's hand. He leaned forward and took it with both of his. "Oh Miranda," she whispered again. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Miranda held her hand out to Peter imploringly. Peter rebuffed her silent plea with an expression of stunned disdain and Miranda's face crumpled in pained mortification. "Peter! It wasn't my fault! I didn't do anything."

"That's the problem, Miranda." Her father appeared to have aged ten years in ten seconds, his complexion a sickly grey, his shoulders sagging.

"But Henny was there," Miranda went on, frantic to make her case. "I knew she would take care of everything. It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds before she found Grandmother Katherine. What difference would thirty seconds have made?"

Peter jumped to his feet. "Who's going to call the cops?"

Miranda began to cry. "Peter! You can't call the police on me! I didn't do anything. I'll give Della back her precious jewelry and everything will be all right. I only wanted to borrow it for our dinner at the club and would have brought it back if Grandmother Katherine hadn't died."

Peter Stanton looked down at Miranda with loathing. "I can't believe I wasted five years of my life on you." He backed several steps away from the woman he thought one day would be his wife, once the bar made enough to support both of them. "There's a bright side to this, Miranda. You don't work in a _**bar**_ any longer."

* * *

It took several minutes of Miranda's hysterical sobbing, a heated exchange with Lawrence Allensworth, and pitiful pleas from Sarah Allensworth before Peter Stanton agreed to leave the meeting but to not summon the police. Carter escorted Peter from the house and by the time he returned to the parlor, Lawrence was imploring everyone present not to involve the police since the fact was that his daughter had only acted in a cowardly, not criminal, manner.

"You can't buy yourself out of this scandal, Lawrence," Jameson pointed out. "Your wife as much as admitted you were broke."

"But he can buy himself out of the scandal," Della interjected. "I'm forgiving Esther's debt and turning her jewelry over to Sarah."

All eyes swung to where Della remained seated at her grandmother's desk and another shocked silence filled the parlor.

"Initially I intended to give it to Miranda," she continued calmly, catching Miranda's stricken look out of the corner of her eye, "but when I saw her wearing the rubies at the club I changed my mind. I want Sarah to decide when or if Miranda ever gets that jewelry."

Sarah flung her arms around her husband and hugged him joyously. "Lawrence! We can pay off the mortgage! We can sell the house and retire!"

Della sat back in her chair and indulged in a self-satisfied glance at a distraught Miranda, the traitorous friend who never really had been her friend, her suspicions appeased by this little bit of justice.

"How could you, Del?" Miranda held her hands out, palms up, imploring. "How could you turn on me like this?"

"Remarkably easily, Miranda, once I began to suspect what must have happened. Grandmother wouldn't have allowed you to borrow the jewelry, and you couldn't have snuck it out without her knowing about it, so you had to have taken it the day she had the stroke." Della sat forward and leaned her chin in her hands. "I believe you didn't do anything directly to make her fall, but I also agree with your father that not doing anything to help her after she fell was unconscionable. She treated you like her own grandchild – _**better**_ than her own grandchild, and you left her lying on the floor."

"But Henny was right there, I tell you! I didn't know what to do, but I knew Henny would."

"Keep telling yourself that, Miranda, because your life-long punishment will be living with the knowledge that you left an eighty-seven year old woman lying unconscious on the floor while you ran away with a necklace and a bracelet to wear to a stupid country club dinner. The rest of your punishment is now up to your parents, and I think your mother told us what that punishment will be."

"This isn't fair! You can't do this to me. Mother, you can't take my jewelry."

"Your mother can and she will," Lawrence Allensworth told his daughter firmly. "That blasted jewelry has caused nothing but trouble and we'll be well rid of it. Now sit still so Della can finish what she has to say."

"Emmett will be placing all of Grandmother's valuables in a safety deposit box at the bank tomorrow," Della told Sarah Allensworth. "Grandma Esther's jewelry is to be included and will remain there until probate is complete. I fully expect the ruby necklace and bracelet to be returned so they can be locked up as well."

"Over my dead body," Miranda grumbled.

"So help me God Miranda, I will turn you in to the police myself," her father fumed.

"Mr. Allensworth, your daughter will have to talk to the police considering what she's told us no matter who might turn her in," Perry interpolated, "and it will be up to the district attorney whether or not to press charges. Things may go better for her if she talks to the police of her own volition."

"I'm right here," Miranda reminded them snidely. "I can hear you."

"You just received sound advice from one of the best criminal attorneys in the country free of charge, young lady," Emmett Childers said sternly, looking over the tops of his glasses. "Why don't you shove that huge chip off your shoulder and take it because every single person in this room is itching to tell the District Attorney what you did."

Miranda slumped back in the chair and stuck out her bottom lip in a peevish pout. "I'll consult my own damn attorney, thank you very much. Can we get on with this? Surely you must be almost done, Del."

Della had been sitting quietly observing, the feeling of self-satisfaction about Miranda's comeuppance fading to one of great sorrow for the disappointment Lawrence and Sarah must be feeling. She knew they were humiliated by Miranda's behavior, and hoped that Sarah would indeed sell every piece of that blasted jewelry.

She cleared her throat again, heralding in the next portion of her presentation. "There is someone here whom you all know and must be wondering why he was invited. I'm speaking, of course, about superintendent of schools, Mr. Royce Vermuelen."

Royce Vermuelen, a spare, pale, bespectacled man in his early fifties, bowed slightly at the waist in acknowledgement of his introduction.

"Trust me, Mr. Vermuelen is wondering why he was invited as well." Della hitched her chair a scant inch closer to the desk. "This may come as a surprise to all of you, but Grandmother not only left me the mill and the house, she also left me a significant amount of money."

"How much is 'significant'?" The question came from Carter, who had remained quiet since being relieved of his position as Administrative Vice President at the mill, but who now leaned forward with great interest.

Della shook her head. "I'm not going to reveal that. It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to keep it."

"What do you mean you're not going to keep it?" Carter asked incredulously, voicing the question on everyone's mind.

A peaceful, happy look settled on Della's features despite the tears welling in her eyes. "I mean Mr. Vermuelen and Junelle Barton were invited today because the money will be gifted in the name of Daniel Jameson Street as an academic scholarship program."


	29. Chapter 29

_Whew! We've crested the mountain and are heading into our descent._

_A great big thank you to everyone who is reading and/or commenting. It makes the effort put in to every word worth it and is much appreciated. ~ D_

* * *

Chapter 29

No one paid any attention to the composed, slender woman who moments before had forfeited a fortune. Everyone talked excitedly amongst themselves, and there were even one or two hugs exchanged. Miranda remained seated, arms crossed, her bottom lip thrust out in a pout so far an ostrich could have perched on it. Eve Wyman, silent for the entire presentation following her daughter's unmistakable warning, was now clinging to Jameson Street's arm to support knees made wobbly by pain medication as the formerly married couple spoke with Sarah and Lawrence Allensworth.

Perry eased himself out of his chair and reached for Della. She let him pull her up and into the comforting safety of his embrace, collapsing against his broad chest and clutching at the lapels of his suit coat as tension disguised as composure drained from her.

"I have never been more impressed with you," he whispered into her hair.

She tightened her hold on his lapels and burrowed her face more deeply into his chest. "I c-can't s-s-stop sh-shaking," she chattered.

Perry rested his chin on the top of her head and rocked her gently. "It's over, baby. Just hold on to me."

"I c-can hear my-my knees knocking."

"When everyone is gone we'll raid the liquor cabinet and toast to what you did today."

"If the toast is anything like the last toast you made, I can hardly wait."

"There's my sassy girl. Feeling better?"

"Beginning to. I am, however, disappointed that you knew about your shares of the mill."

"I didn't know," he told her. "It was a total surprise."

"But you said you wanted me to stick to the original plan because you benefitted greatly from it."

Perry brought one hand up to stroke her cheek. "I do benefit greatly from it. That plan releases you from your childhood and sends you home with me tomorrow."

Della pushed herself away from him just enough to gaze up in wonder. "I don't think you could say anything more perfect if you tried."

"Do I dare kiss you in front of all these people?"

"Oh, I dare you – "

"Hand check, Perry," Jeremy Brandis called out.

"Son-of-a-biscuit," Della said under her breath in irritation. "He's just like his cousin."

Perry squeezed her tightly to him. "Let's sneak out of here and find somewhere to be alone. Jeremy, Hank, and Emmett can handle things at this point. That's what we're paying them for."

"Take me, I'm yours. Where's the booze?"

Perry set her from him with an amused chuckle. "Maybe we'll forgo alcohol for a bit longer."

Della opened her mouth to retort but the lightest touch of a hand on her arm made her close it without uttering a word. She turned and wasn't terribly surprised to meet the moist eyes of her former step-mother June Barton.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have to leave now and pick up my daughter from school," she began in a tremulous voice. "What you did, Del...it was…you're a special woman to give up your grandmother's money."

"I couldn't agree more," Perry said. "Perry Mason. I'm pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Barton."

June offered her hand, which Perry shook almost solemnly. "I'm glad someone else appreciates Della, Mr. Mason. She's that cliché'd rose among the thorns in the Street family." She held up her hand when Della would have protested. "I know you think Danny was the best of the Streets, and he was truly special in his own way, but what you don't realize is that you had a lot to do with how wonderful he was. He idolized you, Del. You taught him to climb trees and throw a baseball because Jameson and Carter couldn't be bothered to. You were the first person he asked for when he woke up in the morning and the last person mentioned in his prayers at night. You are a good person and Danny knew that. Despite what went on between your father and me, you loved that little boy unconditionally and I thank God you were his big sister." Her hand lowered once again to Della's arm. "He was like that jar of stones you gave me. Remember? You said they were miraculous and I couldn't get over a six year old pronouncing that word correctly. Danny was miraculous and I am so grateful you have honored him with this scholarship."

"I don't want him to be forgotten," Della said shakily, "because he was important. People will find out about him and get to know him and talk about him when the scholarship grants are handed out every year. Mr. Brandis will provide a biography about Danny for the newspaper when the formal announcement of the scholarship is made because each recipient will be chosen based on how closely they embody Danny's spirit. I've instructed Mr. Brandis to invite you to sit on the scholarship committee."

June's eyes glimmered with unshed tears of happiness. "Bless you, Della. You are as miraculous and beautiful as your pretty stones. I still have them, you know. They remind me of when Danny was born and of what a lovely, lovely little girl you were. I'm honored you want me to sit on the scholarship committee and I will gladly accept the invitation." She squeezed Della's arm and turned, but a sudden thought brought her back around to face her former step-daughter. "By the way, the dress you're wearing…my youngest daughter made it. If you look at the label, it will say _'Sewn With Love by Carol'_. You look marvelous in it. Take care and be happy, Del."

Perry slipped his arm around Della's shoulders as June walked away. "If you don't cry," he managed say without choking on his words, "I will."

Della shook her head. "I'm not going to cry about Danny ever again. My memories of him are happy and should be celebrated."

"I still have my jar of pretty stones, too, Della." Bitty Sherwood appeared at Della's elbow, small and thin in a flowered dress. Della had grown up with one stern, sturdy grandmother who wore nothing but grey dresses and one fluttery, frail step-grandmother who wore nothing but brightly colored dresses. Today Bitty's dress was an explosion of pink cysthanamums. "I use it as a bookend for my cookbooks in the kitchen."

"Oliver Velting displays his jar in his rock shop," Sarah Allensworth added, sidling up beside Bitty. "He tells anyone who will listen about the 'pretty little gal with all the curls' who gave it to him and got him started rock hounding. I keep my mother's jar on a shelf in the guest room. She was very attached to it. I often saw her turning it around and around in her hands, especially toward the end when she was in a lot of pain."

Della felt overwhelmed and bewildered by the testimonials regarding those simple jars of stones. To be truthful, she had forgotten about the beribboned jars until catching sight of Oliver Velting's in his shop. Dredging up the memory of the day her father had scattered the painstakingly gathered stones in deep grass had hurt more than she let on to Perry, and she didn't know what to do with the knowledge that four out of the five jars she'd given as gifts still existed.

"You did good things today, Della." Bitty Sherwood peered at her step-granddaughter through thick round lenses with rheumy eyes. "None of us did right by you when you were a child, yet you were practical and more than fair, even to Evie, who deserves nothing from you."

Della impulsively hugged her tiny grandmother and then stepped back into the protective circle of Perry's arm. "I couldn't take what belongs to all of you and this town," Della demurred. "I didn't fit in here when I was a child, and I'm an even poorer fit as an adult."

Sarah Allensworth grasped Della's hand. "Miranda will turn herself in to the police and explain what happened that day," she promised earnestly. "And she will offer her profound apologies personally to everyone she hurt or offended. Lawrence and I over-compensated for the situation with Tony by spoiling Larry and Miranda and I'm ashamed to say neither are the upstanding person you turned out to be. Part of me wishes you would stay so we can get to know you again. And maybe some of your character would rub off on Miranda."

"I can't remember a day when she wasn't my friend," Della said slowly and thoughtfully. "I'm afraid, however, that what she's done has irreparably severed our friendship. If she reaches out to me I will be cordial, but that's all I think I'll be capable of for a long, long time."

Sarah Allensworth regarded Della with profoundly sad eyes. "I'm so sorry, Della."

Della squeezed the hand of her oldest friend's mother. "So am I, Sarah. So am I."

* * *

The knock on her bedroom door was so timid she almost didn't hear it. "Come in," she called, and turned in her seat at the vanity to greet whoever had knocked.

The door opened a crack and Henny's shiny blonde head slipped through tentatively. "Do you have a moment, Della?"

Della stood and crossed the room swiftly. "I'll always have time for you, Henny. Come in."

Detecting how her conversations with Bitty and Sarah had drained her emotionally, Perry, ever her protector, insisted that she run upstairs to regroup while 'the gang' made their exits. She wanted to protest being separated from him, but the idea of a few moments alone suddenly appealed to her and she gratefully slipped away from the small group of people mingling in the parlor.

"Are you sure…?"

"Henny, I said it was all right. Please come in."

The curvy woman stepped fully into Della's bedroom. "I – I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, and I didn't know when you and Mr. Mason would be leaving…what you did today…you changed my life. I'll be grateful to you forever."

"Has Carter proposed already?" Della smiled despite realizing she had created perpetual ties with her family by clearing the way for Carter to marry Henny.

Henny's answering smile held the power of several suns. "Not only did he propose, he actually set a date!"

"I wondered what you two were talking about in the corner after the meeting. Are you sure this is what you want?"

Henny nodded her head vigorously. "I'm positive. No more doubts. He'll be so much happier in production and development and I'll work on him about his stuffiness…" she broke off with a peal of laughter that sounded like bells. "He wants us to have a house of our own and to start a family right away, and I'm so happy I could burst! And it's all because of you."

"I'm glad you're happy, Henny. That's all I want."

Henny stood before Della, trembling from head to toe, nearly jumping out of her skin with indescribable joy. "Can I hug you?"

Della burst into delighted laughter as Henny's happiness hit her like a tidal wave and she held out her arms. The other woman fairly jumped into them. "Well, sister-in-law, shall we go tell Father and Perry the good news?"

Henny unwrapped her arms from around Della and wiped at tears sliding down her glowingly pink cheeks. "No, you stay here and rest. I heard Mr. Mason tell Mrs. Wyman you needed some time to yourself, but I just had to tell you. I hope you'll forgive me for barging in."

"There's nothing to forgive. Perry and I are leaving in the morning, so this is probably the only time we'll be able to talk between now and then."

Henny folded Della in another deliriously happy hug and headed for the door. "I'd better get downstairs and tidy up the parlor before I go home to change. Carter wants to have dinner at the club to celebrate. We're inviting Jameson and I suppose we'll have to include Mrs. Wyman because she really shouldn't be by herself right now. We'd like it very much if you and Mr. Mason joined us."

Della shook her head, touched by Henny's sincerely gracious invitation, but knowing that Carter wouldn't be too happy if she and Perry attended the celebratory dinner. "I'll be down in a few minutes to help you clean up, but Perry has something in mind for us tonight. Thank you for inviting us, though." She felt a bit guilty about the tiny fib, because they had no concrete plans for the evening, but she felt confident in declining and blaming him.

Henny's tinkling laughter pealed again. "Of course he has something in mind! You'll warn me if you'll be up in the caretaker's quarters, won't you?"

Della had the good grace to blush. "Actually, that was _**my**_ idea. Perry was worried you'd be blinded or some foolishness like that."

"Whatever gave him that idea? I was surprised is all because Mrs. Wyman led me to believe he was alone," Henny assured her. "I'm not a prude." She opened the door but didn't exit the room. "I wish I had thought of that apartment a long time ago. It would have come in handy evenings when Jameson was home and Carter couldn't keep his hands to himself."

"Why Henny, are you saying you and my brother…"

"Enjoy a physical relationship?" Henny interrupted with a sly grin. "I'm not _**saying**_ anything like that at all."

"Well I'll be damned," Della said under her breath.

* * *

Della dried her hands on the dishtowel and satisfied with the cleanliness of the kitchen, spun away from the sink, and let out a little scream. "Carter! Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a person like that?"

"I was about to announce myself," her brother defended himself.

"A good time to announce yourself would have been at the door," she grumbled, untying her grandmother's apron from around her waist and tossing it over the back of a kitchen chair.

"Can you for once not antagonize me, Della?"

Della stared at him in astonishment. "I antagonize you? _**I**_ antagonize _**you**_?"

"You pick and crab at me relentlessly. Nothing I say or do is ever good enough for you."

"Nothing _**you**_ do is good enough…good grief, Carter, you're the one who's lectured me my entire life about the obligations and expectations of being a Street. Everyone in this family had an idea about what I should do in any given situation, but no one listened to what I wanted."

"It's always about you, isn't it?"

"Of course it is!" She fairly shouted. "I was standing here, minding my own business, and you scared the dickens out of me. The next thing I know, somehow having the dickens scared out of me is antagonizing you."

"No, antagonizing me was pointing out I could have announced myself at the door by shouting instead of addressing you at a conversational distance."

Della collapsed in a chair and put her head in her hands. "What is the point of this conversation?" She didn't have the strength to remind him of the fact he had no compunction about standing at the bottom of the stairs and shouting for her.

"The point is that you are constantly jumping on me before I can make a point." He pulled out a chair opposite her and lowered his long, lean frame into it.

She massaged her temples vigorously before replying. "Okay, let's for a moment suppose I do that."

"Why should we suppose when it's something you actually do?"

"I'm willing to go along with you on this, Carter, but you have to play nice, too, okay?"

"Where's Mason?"

Della counted to ten before answering. "He had an errand to run. He'll be back soon. Do you want to talk to him?" The meeting had concluded over ninety minutes ago and she desperately needed to flee somewhere with Perry, but things kept popping up to keep them apart, such as Perry's sudden need to 'run an errand'. She'd questioned him as to what kind of errand he could possibly have to run two thousand miles from home in a strange town, but he'd merely deflected her inquiry in that annoying lawyer way he had.

"No, I've talked to him all I care to. I just wanted to make sure we had time to talk before he came barging in."

"Carter…point?"

"Henny told you about us."

"We've spoken. You came up a couple of times in casual conversation."

Carter stared at his sister for a few uncomfortable seconds. "Thank you."

"I did it for Henny, not you."

Carter threw his hands up in the air. "There you go again! I was playing nice. You didn't have to say that."

He was right, damn him. Della frowned at her lack of self-control. "You're right," she agreed.

"Let's start over."

Della considered rolling her eyes, but resisted the urge. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

There was silence in the kitchen for several long moments.

"It's killing you not to zing me, isn't it?" Carter sat back and crossed his arms.

Della laughed. She had no idea Carter had a sense of humor, let alone an ounce of intuitiveness. "I'm literally biting the inside of my lip to keep my mouth shut." What had Perry said to her? Something about not listening to him because she was constantly forming witty retorts? Did she really do that? Is that what she had been doing to Carter her entire life?

"Why did you do it?"

"Because," she said, drawing out the 's' as a hard 'z', "you sent me back to Perry once. I sent you back to Henny. We're even."

More seconds of silence passed as Carter absorbed his sister's words. "You pulled my hair," he said suddenly.

"How's that?"

Carter leaned forward on his elbows, closing the space between them. "When you were a baby, you pulled my hair and giggled as if it was the most hysterical thing in the world to do." He paused and took a deep breath. "I didn't hate it."

"Wow," she said, stunned.

"You were pretty and happy and I liked being around you. I took you on walks in your carriage and all the neighborhood girls flirted with me while they oohed and aahed over you. I didn't hate that, either." He flashed a grin and she nearly fell off her chair.

"If you liked me as a baby, what happened to make you dislike me as I grew up?"

"A lot of things," he replied evasively.

"Carter…"

"A lot of things happened," he repeated irritably, the glimpse of vulnerability and an engaging personality hidden again behind his usual irascibleness. "You know what it was like with Grandmother and Father. You thought it better to fight them than to join them. I, on the other hand, decided it better to join them than to fight them. I am what I am, and what I am doesn't understand you, and just when I thought I finally had you figured out, you go and give away everything Grandmother left you."

"Not quite everything. I kept a small amount of cash Emmett found in the house."

Carter nodded. "Seven thousand dollars," he confirmed. "Grandmother always said one should keep seven thousand dollars close at hand. One of her many quirks Emmett indulged."

"You have seven thousand dollars in your room, don't you?"

That infectious grin flashed again. "Under a floorboard in my closet. Father keeps his behind a painting in the study."

Della shook her head disbelievingly. "It's utter madness to keep so much cash in a house."

"It's what sent you home three years ago. I reimbursed myself from behind the painting." The grin appeared once more.

Della wasn't quite sure what to make of her brother at this moment. "Promise me you won't hide money in your new house."

Carter blinked in surprise. "What new house?"

"Henny said you wanted a house of your own…"

Carter waved her words aside. "If father doesn't allow us to live here we'll necessarily have to buy our own house, but I think he'll want us to stay."

Della pushed back her chair and stood. "Will you play nice a bit longer and promise to let Henny decide where you will live after you're married? A successful relationship is built on respect and compromise and a lot of hard work. At the risk of antagonizing you again, let me say that I tend to agree with Grandmother that Henny is too good for you, but she loves you and I'd like her to be happy married to you. There hasn't been a lot of happiness in this house in the century since it was built."

* * *

Della left Carter in the kitchen and encountered Perry leaning against the wall in the hallway. He'd changed from his business suit into chinos, a striped button-down shirt, and his new Converse sneakers.

"Did you have a nice talk with your brother?"

"How long have you been eavesdropping on us?"

"Only since '_a successful relationship is built on respect and compromise and a lot of hard work'_. I personally think it's a combination of respect, compromise, and a lot of ribald activity, but I can see where that might have been embarrassing to say to your brother."

She took his hand and pulled him away from the kitchen door toward the stairway. "It's a good thing you're handsome, because sometimes what you say…"

Perry ducked his head and kissed her, efficiently cutting off whatever retort she had been building up to. "Did you miss me?"

"I pined for hours. Can we grab some booze and get out of here?"

"Aren't you going to ask where I've been?"

"No."

"Come on. Ask me where I've been."

"I will not. You're setting me up."

"Please ask me where I've been."

Della looked heavenward for strength. "Where have you been, Perry?"

He gave her a gleefully smug smile. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

She did a beautiful job of swallowing a smile. "You've been playing with a four year-old?"

Perry turned her toward the stairs and swatted her behind. "We're going to have so much fun this evening! Go get a jacket or wrap or something. When the sun goes down it's bound to be chilly."


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

The sun dipped below the tree line, and a decided chill set in just as Perry predicted. The sweater Della now wore was soft and fuzzy and clung to her every curve and he had to admit the sales clerk at _Skogmo's_ had known what she was doing by showing her sweaters in the middle of a heat wave. Because heat waves eventually break and weather returns to normal for the season, just as stressful situations eventually break and life returns to normal.

They were sitting on the bank of a _crik_, which Perry had always thought was a _creek_, resplendently full on bread and cheese and a fruity red wine produced by a winery only an hour away. Della learned that Perry hadn't in reality been influenced by a four year-old, but had instead spent an hour at the market buying provisions and scouting a location for their picnic. The blanket from the trunk of the Galaxie had been pressed into service once again to cover the slightly damp grass, but this time there were other picnic-goers close by, so the memories hidden in its fibers would have to suffice.

"Do you want to come back for Carter's wedding?" Perry settled against the weeping willow more comfortably and shifted Della so that her head landed squarely on his chest. The tree was younger and smaller than the one in the back yard, but he knew Della would be pleased that it was a willow, and she had been.

"I wouldn't come back for Carter's wedding. I would come back for _**Henny's**_ wedding. "

"Do you want to come back for Michael's wedding?"

"I would come back for _**Michael's**_ wedding. I wouldn't come back for Amy's wedding."

He chuckled. "Maybe we should introduce Michael to Henny and Carter to Amy. That would solve your conundrum."

"It would indeed," she drawled. "Why don't you just come right out and say we shouldn't turn our backs on this place instead of beating around this wedding bush?"

"I'm not beating around any bush. I'm attempting to determine where you stand on these upcoming events."

"I hope to be standing in L.A. during these upcoming events."

Perry yawned. "We'll probably be up to our elbows in a murder trial by the time these events finally roll around," he pointed out.

"Yes, there is that very convenient excuse. I don't think either couple actually believes we'll show up. And I think if anyone wants to see me in the near future they'll have to come out to L.A."

"So it's settled. We will never step foot in this town again."

Della turned onto her side and tucked one hand beneath her cheek. Perry's strong heart beat comfortingly in her ear and she closed her eyes in pure contentment as his arms tightened around her. "Well, maybe once," she capitulated.

Perry grinned into the descending twilight. "Let's hope there are a lot of years between funerals. It will take a long time to recover from this trip."

"He's a sad, beaten man. I almost feel sorry for him because I don't think he's ever truly resolved his feelings for my mother. He and June never had a chance."

"Your father and Eve have been spending a lot of time together, and he has let her stay at the house well beyond the dictates of politeness," Perry mused. "What would you think if she gave her current fiancé the heave-ho and rekindled their romance?"

She levered herself up by digging her elbow into his stomach. He gave a little yelp of protest. "Tell me what you know," she demanded.

"I don't know anything."

"You wouldn't say something like that if you didn't know something, Perry."

"Honestly, I don't _**know**_ anything. But I think seeing her again has stirred a lot of memories and regrets on his part."

"If I tell you a story about Danny, will you tell me what you know about my father and my mother?"

His eyes looked at her with aching tenderness, debating what of her father's story he could tell her without causing too much pain. "I will tell you one thing I know for certain."

She turned and settled back against his chest. "When I was twelve-and-a-half, shortly after she and Stand got married, June asked Grandmother if I could babysit Danny on Tuesday nights because she was on the library board and Stan worked nights, ironically at the mill. She told Grandmother it only made sense for me to do it, and Grandmother actually agreed with her. The first night I was to babysit, I finished my piano lesson, bolted my dinner, and sat on the bench in the hallway with a new book to read Danny at bedtime, tapping my feet, waiting for Grandmother to put on her coat and drive me to June's house in her Packard."

As this memory poured from her, Perry felt her begin to tremble in his arms. He was ecstatic she was talking about Danny, and hoped she could keep her resolve to not cry about him ever again.

"When I got to June's house, there was a surprise waiting for me: I was not only babysitting Danny, but I was babysitting Tony Domenico as well. I was so excited and felt so grown up I nearly pushed June out the door and slammed it behind her. I shooed the boys into the living room to set out the dominoes and went into the kitchen to make hot cocoa. When I walked into the living room a few minutes later, Tony was standing next to the raised fireplace hearth, laughing like the Devil, and Danny was on his knees, on the hearth, his back to me. He whipped his head around, gave me a big grin, and announced that he had just peed in the fireplace."

Perry's unrestrained laugh boomed out over the serenity of the creekside park, causing other picnickers nearby to stare at him curiously, much like those dining at the country club had earlier in the week.

Della's laughter, free and easy and music to his ears, joined his. "I don't think that fireplace had ever been cleaner by the time those boys got done scrubbing it out. I swore them to secrecy because I was afraid June would never allow me to babysit again and I wanted that time with Danny so much. She's never brought it up, so I can only assume neither of the boys ever let it slip to her."

Perry wiped tears from the corner of one eye, started to say something, but was overcome with laughter again. "My gosh, Della, that's the funniest story I've ever heard."

"He was a good kid, but put him with Tony for any length of time and there was bound to be trouble. They could be so naughty."

"And half the time everyone looked the other way."

Della nodded. "Danny was so engaging, and had such an impish grin…your grin reminds me of his. I think that's why I'm helpless against it."

"That's the best compliment you've ever given me," he said quietly, deeply touched by her admission.

"Being maudlin is not allowed," she told him sternly. "I'm through being foolishly and mawkishly emotional about my life before I escaped this town."

"I wish I had known that before I agreed to tell you what I know about your father and mother. I thought it would make you happy, but now I think it might be foolish and mawkish."

She drew his arms around her more securely, in effect hugging him as he held her. "Let me be the judge of that."

He was silent for a moment before taking a deep breath and launching into what he'd decided to tell her. "Your parents loved each other once...and they loved you."

For the next thirty minutes Della insisted that her quiet weeping was neither foolish nor mawkish.

* * *

Della wanted Perry to spend the night in her room, but he insisted that they remain separated, since the house in essence belonged to her father, who had made his attitude about their relationship quite clear. Perry wanted no more confrontations, no more tight-lipped conversations about propriety, no more aggravation for her, no more trips to the 'vangcant' lot. They would be free of her family and the house that all but entombed them in the morning. Surely they could maintain a modicum of restraint until that time, couldn't they? Slightly perturbed, she'd kissed him breathless outside her bedroom as a reminder of what he would be missing, and disappeared quickly behind the door. She tossed and turned for an hour before jumping out of bed and tiptoeing halfway to Perry's room before changing her mind and returning to her room for more tossing and turning.

She rose just after dawn, showered and washed her hair, then dried it with the pink _Chic_ hand-held blow dryer that had fascinated and amazed Henny, applied her make-up one last time at the hundred year-old vanity in her childhood bedroom, and sat back in the slipper chair to regard her reflection in the wavy, pitted mirror.

She looked the same, but she definitely wasn't. Being here this past week had changed her, and only time would tell if the change was good or bad. There was a lot she and Perry needed to talk about – their entire future together irrevocably altered by revealed secrets and shocking truths that no man should be expected to bear in a relationship with a woman no matter how much he claimed to love her.

But Perry did love her. She knew that just as she knew her own name…hell, she could never use _**that**_ analogy again with any truth. Perry was a man of honor, a man who lived by his word unfailingly. He wouldn't say he loved her if he didn't. And he wouldn't say he would always love her if he didn't truly believe it himself. A practical man, an impatient man, a man who didn't suffer fools lightly, for her he could be impractical, exhibit extreme patience, and generally tolerate occasional lapses in her intelligence. He publically treated her with honorable respect, and privately with nearly reverent respect. He was unafraid to be gentle and tender and to let her see the profound impact his feelings for her had on him. He said he would do anything for her, and she had taken advantage of that vulnerability in him, realizing as she did so that when it came to her he was susceptible to enormous wounding.

Her wounding in regard to him would be every bit as devastating, and she worried about that when she was alone with her thoughts, that his intense commitment to her would ultimately be his undoing, and therefore hers. It was important to both of them that the reason they were together wasn't based solely on Perry's practice, that what they felt for one another had strong legs outside of the office because it was unimaginable to have one without the other. Their personal relationship had already weathered several storms in a relatively short period of time and she feared her constant refusals to marry him tipped the scales in favor of their professional life as they walked a line that became more blurry with every proposal.

It wasn't just her childhood experiences or the newly exposed reality of probable physical limitations that kept her from accepting him as her husband. He was for the most part self-aware of himself, but completely blind to the fact that the attributes that made him such a remarkable man and attorney were the very attributes that would make him a less than remarkable husband. He would continue to love her and be faithful to her, of that she had no fear, but the way he practiced law and made decisions would eventually tear them apart, of that she had no doubt. As long as it was in her power to avoid that inevitability, she would be everything to him she could be…except his wife.

She picked up her brush and unnecessarily pulled it through freshly dried hair. Perry said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The woman staring back at her in the mirror wouldn't make anyone run screaming, but she wasn't sure 'beautiful' was the best word to describe her. His attractiveness was overpowering at times, a devastating mixture of physical and attitudinal traits he was legitimately unaware of, but of which she was acutely aware as her presence at his side was whispered about and disdained. While she could be and had been faulted for her face and figure, the one thing that couldn't be faulted was her wardrobe. She spent too much of her discretionary income on clothing because what she wore pleased him and his admiring looks more than made up for the scorn of those who thought her inferior to them and unworthy of him.

Della glanced at the clock and with a start realized she had been daydreaming for nearly an hour. Perry wanted to leave by nine o'clock, and it was nearly that now. She pushed back the slipper chair and got to her feet, surprised he hadn't come to collect her by now. She had planned to fix a good breakfast for him after the delightful picnic he had provided for her the night before so they wouldn't have to stop somewhere to eat along the road. She took two steps toward the door when someone knocked. She smiled. Even though she had a nearly non-existent relationship with her father, and despite some bluster to the contrary, Perry remained respectful and polite in this house. His habit of knocking on her door was charming and sexy at the same time now that the light of morning shone on it.

She crossed the room and flung open the door. "You're just in time to help me get dressed…" her words halted abruptly.

Her mother stood on the other side.

Della clutched at her robe, her cheeks tinged with pink at another silly little situation she had opened herself up to the past few days. "M-Mrs. Wyman," she stammered.

"I thought we had decided you would call me Eve," her mother said with a disapproving frown. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Della hesitated for several seconds before stepping aside to allow Eve Wyman to enter the bedroom. She left the door open a few inches and turned to face the woman who Perry claimed had once loved her. "What do you want, _**Mrs. Wyman**_?"

Eve stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her injured hand cradled against her body, weaving slightly as she held her injured foot off the floor. "You have to win that battle, don't you?"

"I'm more comfortable calling you that," Della admitted. She wouldn't admit that in the presence of others she referred to her as simply 'that woman'.

"Do I make you uncomfortable, Della?"

"You don't make me anything."

Eve Wyman winced. "I suppose I deserve your hostility. And I suppose given everything I've done ten shares of the mill might be more than I deserve." She limped past Della on wobbly legs to one of the slipper chairs and sat down. "I wanted you to know I harbor no resentment toward you for not honoring your grandmother's promise."

"That's big of you. But you're assuming that I care."

"You sound like Perry," Eve said crossly, eyebrows knit together.

Della remained standing in the center of the room, silent, offering her mother no reaction to play off of.

"You're making this harder than it has to be, Della," her mother complained. "I'm not going to apologize for abandoning you or beg you to allow me into your life. To be honest, I have few if any lingering unfulfilled motherly instincts regarding you." She flashed a small grimace. "I'm sure Paul Drake's report mentioned that the emotional capabilities of someone like me are shallow at best. I try to be normal, but there are certain demons that can't be controlled. Unfortunately you and your father bore the brunt of an inevitable breakdown, the first of many."

"You sound different," Della observed cautiously.

Eve flashed another grimace. "It's the pain medication. I've experienced it a couple of times before. Narcotics generally impair one's thinking, but in my case narcotics actually bring clarity to my thoughts. My cognitive abilities…" she broke off with another grimace. "I won't bore you with the psychological analysis of my condition. It's a miracle I'm not a lunatic morphine addict, which I owe to quite a few very good doctors."

"Did those very good doctors tell you it was all right to acknowledge you had no motherly instincts to your daughter's face?"

Eve lifted her chin defiantly at her daughter's unexpectedly bitter words. "As a matter of fact, they did. You may find this hard to believe, but I wanted you. I did my best for as long as I could, but my mind eventually betrayed me and I could barely take care of myself, let alone care for you properly. There really was no choice but for Jameson to put me where I couldn't hurt myself. Or you." She suddenly dropped her head. "It took me a long time to admit that. I blamed him for everything that happened and did everything I could to hurt him as much as he'd hurt me. I humiliated him and myself and sacrificed you to those two witches when the doctors said my mind was as good as it would ever be. I was so young and Jameson…Jameson did things I couldn't understand or accept, and even though he would have forgiven me, I couldn't forgive him. I made the decision not to be his wife or your mother when Katherine offered a lot of money if I left and promised more if I never contacted either of you in her lifetime. I took it and ran away."

"It appears I inherited more than what I look like from you," Della commented dryly. "I tend to run away when emotions overwhelm me."

"But your mind…your mind is strong," Eve insisted, her voice tinged with an almost frantic insistence. She gingerly raised her injured hand. "You would never do this to yourself because voices in your head told you it was the only way to get what those same voices decided you simply had to have."

"Congratulations, Mrs. Wyman. You've just imparted a valuable piece of motherly advice. I promise never to close a hot waffle iron on my hand in an attempt to get what I want."

Eve Wyman rested her bandaged hand in her lap and stared at her daughter with miserable eyes. "The medication is wearing off," she said in an oddly regretful tone.

"How do I know you haven't made up all of this?"

"You know because your boss had me investigated, and he's been talking quite a bit with your father. I'm fairly confident you've been filled in on my appalling history." She smiled sadly at Della's confirming silence and got to her feet slowly. "I thought as much."

There was a tap on the door and it swung open at that moment as Perry stepped into the room. "Shake a leg, darling. The bus leaves in ten minutes…Oh, I beg your pardon, ladies." He tossed a concerned look at Della that visibly got under Eve Wyman's skin.

"Della and I were just clearing the air, Perry," she managed to say breezily. "Would you be a good boy and leave us alone for one more minute?"

Perry advanced further into the room, grabbed Della's suitcase and garment bag from where she had placed them at the foot of the bed and strode back to the open bedroom door. He bowed sardonically. "I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Mrs. Wyman, but I can't."

"He's handsome enough and I was certainly attracted to him at first, but he's the most insufferable man I've ever met," Eve Wyman muttered discontentedly behind Perry's retreating form. "I can't for the life of me imagine what you see in him."

"I can imagine," Della said softly.

Eve spun on her daughter. "Well, you can have him!" she snapped.

Della blinked at the vehemence of her mother's words. If Eve Wyman was truthful in the least it appeared the effects of the pain medication were most definitely waning. "I'll take him!" she snapped back.

Eve Wyman stalked to the door as best she could on her sore foot, pausing as she reached the threshold. "I won't be returning to California, so you don't have to worry about me showing up on your doorstep again," she said in a calmer more lucid tone, her back to Della. "I broke my engagement with Elliott last night and I'm going to live with Bitty in the house where I grew up. My step-brothers are worthless and she needs help maintaining it, and since there is a respectable mental hospital nearby, it makes sense for me to stay. The doctor who treated me twenty-five years ago is chief of staff now. It will be like old times."

"Will you be seeing much of my father?"

Eve shrugged her shoulders, still facing away from her daughter. "That's up to him. I've made him aware that I wouldn't be averse to seeing him on a social basis aside from mill board meetings. He is still quite handsome in case you haven't noticed." She stepped from the room and disappeared down the hallway.

Della stared at her toes, wretchedly aware that nothing in regard to her mother would ever be her father's decision.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

She rolled her eyes when Perry stood at the bottom of the stairs like Carter had her entire life and hollered her name as she hurried into a pair of black and white checked capri pants, a short-sleeved white blouse accented with black ribbon, and black espadrilles, all the fruits of her shopping extravaganza at _Skogmo's_. Such impatience from the dignified attorney! She hollered back that she would be right down and maybe he should go outside and start the car instead of wasting time shouting at her. Her father and brother had already left for the mill, having both offered her stilted, awkward farewells and uncomfortable pecks to her cheeks after she and Perry returned from their picnic and subsequent drive along the river the night before – braving one more whiff of the mill in order to cross the bridge – and felt a slight twinge of regret that they were parting as virtual strangers yet again. She was through wishing they could accept her for who she was instead of who they thought she should be, because she'd discovered that she could barely tolerate them for who they were. Having finally sorted that out had possibly been worth the trip.

She tossed a few items into her train case, closed and latched the lid, tucked her robe into the carryall, picked up both cases as well as her large straw purse, and took a moment to circle the bedroom in which she had spent the first nineteen-and-a-half years of her life. There wasn't much she was attached to in this house, but despite the atrocious color of the room, she realized she would miss the dainty slipper chairs and the quilted bedspread she had chosen herself at sixteen, as well as the gentle landscape painting that hung over her bed. Her great-grandmother Della's trunk at the foot of the bed was attractive, and she briefly pictured it beneath her bedroom window in L.A. Shaking off the vision, she crossed the room and jerked open the door.

Della was two steps from the staircase when she abruptly turned and marched down the hallway to her grandmother's room. She took a deep breath and with a steady hand turned the knob and entered the room that had been forbidden territory to her as a child.

It was pink. The same pink as her own room.

Della didn't know whether to laugh or cry as her grandmother's stern voice echoed across the years. _"A girl's room should be pink, Della Katherine. Your room has always been pink and it shall remain pink for as long as I'm alive."_

The room was small, much smaller than her own, the smallest bedroom in the enormous house, with only enough space for a single bed, one side table, and an oversized mahogany dresser. The bedspread was white chenille scattered with pink organza rosettes. A single tear slipped down Della's cheek as she placed her train case, purse, and carryall on the pristine counterpane and skirted the bed to more closely examine the odds and ends on the side table.

The lamp was Tiffany, the 'Nasturtium' design Della determined. She turned it on to get a better look at photographs in ornately carved mahogany frames arranged around the lamp and let out a gasp. There were five and all were of her: one as a laughing infant with her hands held above her head; one in a bathing suit at five sitting on the beach atop a mound of stones; one at ten seated at the monstrous piano in a frilly organza dress and patent leather Mary Jane's; and the fourth was her high school graduation picture, a terrifically sophisticated head-and-shoulders pose taken on a day her unruly hair had actually cooperated. It was the fifth photo that shocked her to her toes: a newspaper article about famed criminal attorney Perry Mason and his_ 'deep-dish secretary' _who was rumored to '_shadow him at work and at play'_ accompanied by possibly the most flattering picture ever taken of her exiting the courtroom, smiling up at Perry as he gazed down at her with an expression no employer should favor an employee with. Where Katherine Street had gotten the clipping was beyond her.

"Oh Grandmother," she sobbed. "Why didn't you ever say anything to me?" She wiped her wet face with shaking hands and let her teary eyes scan the room. There were more photographs on the dresser, two each of Carter and Danny as infants, and one of a baby with a mop of blonde hair that could only be her father. Hung by a velvet cord above the dresser was a photo of a bride in a sensible wool two-piece wedding ensemble standing next to a tall, thin man with a mass of blonde curls. So it was her grandfather who had passed on his curls to her. Her grandmother was recognizable as a young woman, her abundant blonde hair pulled back in the same bun she wore until her dying day, her strong features unaffected by age and gravity, the ubiquitous string of pearls draped around her long neck. Della's fingers touched her own long neck as she gulped back fresh sobs.

Her eyes travelled from the dresser to the wall nearest the bed where more framed photographs were arranged: her grandmother and the grandfather she had never met in front of the house, unsmiling; a young boy holding a baby in a white christening gown; the same boy older and holding a different baby in the same christening gown; and finally the boy by himself, older yet. Della wiped her eyes again as she realized the babies were her father's siblings, a brother and a sister who hadn't survived beyond infancy. She was facing a childless future, which was heartbreaking enough – she couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her grandmother to give birth to a child and lose it, not once, but twice. Had her grandmother ever spoken of these lost babies or shown her the photographs, her life might have been very different.

Behind the bed was a partial wall of built-in shelves like those in all of the seven bedrooms. Her grandmother had not been much of a book reader, but had religiously read the daily newspaper and several editions were neatly folded and stacked on the first shelf. The second shelf held more framed photographs which were fuzzy and yellow with age and of people she couldn't possibly identify. The third shelf contained an unexpected collection of pink Depression glass vases. The fourth shelf was home to one item and one item only, positioned directly in the center: a glass canning jar of stones with a faded pink ribbon tied around the lid.

With a strangled cry, Della kicked off her shoes and swung her legs onto the bed. She pulled herself to her feet, and used the built-in shelving to steady herself as she strained to reach the jar. Her fingertips barely brushed the raised letters PERFECT MASON beneath the scripted logo of the _Ball Mason Jar Company_ and she climbed on top of the spindle headboard for more height. That did the trick as she was able to pluck the pretty stones from their perch and collapse on the bed with the jar clutched tightly against her chest, her heart pounding madly.

She almost didn't hear Perry calling her name again from the bottom of the stairs, until he threatened to climb the stairs, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her like a sack of potatoes to the car if she didn't come down in exactly one minute. Her heart still pounding, Della shoved her feet back into the espadrilles, pulled her robe from the carry-all and wrapped the jar of pretty stones in it, while answering Perry that she would be right down for crying out loud. She grabbed four of the photos from the side table and hastily stuffed them and the robe in to the carry-all, picked up her train case and purse and hurried from her grandmother's bedroom. Back in her room she yanked open the top left drawer of the vanity, rummaged around the contents for a few seconds before letting out a triumphant _'yes!'_ and emerging with exactly what she'd hope was still there. The item was placed in the carry-all as well and without another backward glance, she flew down the stairs and out the door of her childhood home to where Perry awaited by the open trunk of the Galaxie. She handed him the train case, but insisted upon placing the carry-all in the trunk herself.

Perry slammed the trunk shut and turned to Della. Her cheeks were flushed and he suspected she had been crying again. He drew her close and discovered she was trembling. "Baby, are you all right? I'm sorry I shouted at you. Do you need more time in the house?"

She wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. She kissed him deeply, molding her body intimately to his as only she could, as she knew only she ever would. "Let's get the hell out of here," she said breathlessly.

* * *

"Pushing won't get us there any faster, Della," Perry told her with a chuckle.

Della looked down at her feet, which were indeed firmly pressed against the floorboards. She grinned. "I'm a little anxious to put as many miles between us and this town as possible," she admitted a trifle sheepishly. "I don't think I even want to stop for breakfast. Let's just have an early lunch."

Perry brought the car to a stop where Morrell Street emptied onto M-89 (called Allegan Street where it actually passed through the 'business district' of the small town), the road that would take them to the highway and a clear path to the airport. He squeezed her hand affectionately before merging onto the town's major road. They drove by Creekside Park, the location of their picnic the night before, and Perry couldn't help but point out that the sign clearly read _'creek'_ and not _'crik'_, and Della was too giddy with happiness to mount an argument about the _**proper**_ pronunciation of the word. She loved this man and he was taking her home. Any witticisms that might bubble up would simply have to remain unspoken. She waved good-bye to the lovely little park and slid over close to Perry, her hand still in his.

"I forgot, there is one stop we need to make," Della spoke into Perry's ear as her teeth latched onto his lobe and tugged.

"I must warn you, if you don't cut that out immediately, we'll miss our plane."

"No we won't," she said enigmatically, and tugged his earlobe again.

"I suppose not, since Byron stuck around this whole week in order to fly us back. He kept busy with flights to Chicago and Detroit, and said he made a pile of money, but he's ready to go home to his girlfriend and spend all that money on her."

"Byron has been home for an entire day now," Della informed him. "All that money has no doubt been spent already."

Perry took his eyes off the road to stare at her. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't think I can say it any clearer than I did, but I'll try. Bryon is already in California."

"Then how the heck are we supposed to…"

"Turn here!" Della interrupted, pointing to the entrance of a sprawling automobile dealership.

Perry braked suddenly and the car behind him leaned on the horn in protest as he steered the Galaxie into the car lot. "I have a lot of questions to ask you, young lady. The first of which being why are we at a car lot?"

"Because Byron flew home already," she explained patiently.

"Because Byron flew home already," he repeated under his breath. "And how do you know that?"

"I told him to fly home Wednesday night. As you said, he missed Doris and had all that money burning a hole in his pocket. Someone wanted to charter a flight to Las Vegas, so it all worked out."

"And how exactly are we to get to the lake if you sent our pilot home, Miss Street?"

"Stop! Park right here," she directed, pointing to an empty parking space near the dealership entrance. She had the car door open almost before he brought the Galaxie to a complete halt, and was walking swiftly toward a man with sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses who was smiling broadly at her. They embraced quickly in greeting and were half-way back to the Galaxie by the time Perry had exited the car and made his way around to the passenger side. "Chief, I'd like you to meet Jeffrey Kuiper, an old friend from high school. Jeff, this is my employer, Perry Mason." She took his left hand in hers, and smiled up at him with joyous pride.

The younger man extended his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason. I've heard quite a bit about you this past week. I was floored when Del called the other night and said she wanted to buy a car today."

Perry accepted Jeff Kuiper's hand and shook it. "I was a bit floored myself," Perry admitted affably. "Well, Miss Street, I guess this answers my question about how we're getting to the lake."

She nodded with barely contained excitement. "We're driving my new car," she replied.

"All she has to do is pick out the color," Jeff Kuiper piped in with the same level of excitement. "I've had three Impalas brought up for you to look at. They're right over here."

Della's fingers tangled with Perry's as they followed the car salesman across the lot to where three shiny Chevrolet Impalas sat, one white, one black, one blue, the early morning sun glinting off spotless windshields.

"I've never bought a car before," Della whispered. "Am I supposed to drive them and see how each one handles or should I get all girly and buy the blue one because it's the prettiest?"

Perry cupped her cheek with his hand, bringing her face around so he could see her shining eyes. "You should buy the blue one because everyone in Los Angeles wants a Crown Sapphire blue Impala and here one sits on a car lot in the middle of nowhere. But you should at least drive it around the lot for good measure. I have no doubt you'll like it. You made an excellent choice in the Impala."

"I can't take any credit – Jeff suggested it. I told him I was going to buy a car and I trusted him to pick out the best one for me. He lived next door to us for years, until his parents built a big house out by the Allensworth farm. They have an indoor pool."

"Maybe I should chuck the whole criminal law gig and open a Chevy dealership," Perry said meditatively.

"I hear the hours are awful," Della offered.

Perry laughed, which caused Jeff Kuiper to turn around just as the big attorney bent and kissed his employee on her smiling lips. His old pal Michael Domenico had been right – there was definitely something between Della and her boss.

* * *

It took forty-five minutes for Della to drive the beautiful Crown Sapphire blue Impala around the lot twice, for the price to be settled on and the bill of sale to be prepared and signed. The title transfer would not be officially filed until Monday, and she would have a bit of paperwork to deal with when she went to get permanent California license plates, but after counting out the agreed upon price from her grandmother's stashed cash and accepting the keys from Jeff, Della was the owner of her very first car.

Perry had remained mostly silent for the entire transaction, satisfied with her capable price negotiations and concise questions regarding the title and license requirements, and so very, very impressed that she had found a way to leave almost all of her grandmother's money in the town where she had lived her entire life. He was always proud of her, but never so much so as he had been in the past twenty-four hours. He had never known such a remarkable person, and if he didn't already love her beyond definition, he would have fallen in love with her beyond definition this past week. They still had several staggering revelations to confront as their future unfolded, secrets and untruths that had cracked her confidence in their commitment to one another and he would spend the rest of his time on Earth making sure she had no doubt that life without her was no life at all.

Jeff Kuiper insisted that it would be no problem for him to return the rented Galaxie to the airport, so Perry quickly transferred their luggage from the trunk of the clunky Ford to the trunk of the sleek Impala while Della sat at the wheel chatting animatedly with her old friend. Once finished, he closed the trunk of the spanking new Impala and was surprised to find Jeff standing next to him.

"Michael Domenico is my best friend," the car salesman said, his voice low, his face serious.

"I've met Mr. Domenico. Helluva nice guy. We had plans to go fishing but unfortunately they fell through."

Jeff Kuiper's face split into a grin. "Mike said you were all right, but I had to make sure myself. Take care of Del, okay Mr. Mason? She was always too special for this town, and Mike would be the first to admit she was too special for him as well. I'm glad to see how happy she looks."

"She's too special for L.A.," Perry replied with heartfelt honesty, letting his eyes slide to the topic of their conversation. "And I fear far too special for me as well. It's my pleasure to see that she's taken care of."

The men shook hands with sober respect before Perry stepped toward Della's new car, opened the door and eased his long frame into the passenger seat. "Ready to hit the road, Miss Street?"

Della nodded with such vehemence it sent her curls bouncing. "California or bust."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"So tell me about this 'Del' business." Perry settled back against the Impala's seat after having twisted himself in knots to get the best view of the mill's sawdust pile from atop D Avenue hill. It was a phenomenal sight, the sawdust pile readily recognizable towering above the tops of green trees.

"'Del' business?"

"Patsy, Miranda, Michael, June, and Jeff all call you 'Del'. And they all say it the same way, hitting the 'D' hard and drawing out the 'L'."

Della turned briefly toward him with a wistful smile. "They're mimicking Danny," she said softly, so softly he had to lean in to hear her. "His first word was 'Del'. It almost broke June's heart. I worked with the little stinker for a week to say 'mama' so she wouldn't be so upset. He used to follow me around and say 'But _**D**_ellll', whenever I said no to him. All my friends started to call me 'Del' in the way he did."

"I'm glad you have such good memories of him."

She turned her head toward him once again. "I love you."

"I'm glad of that, too."

She drove in silence for several seconds. "We'll be all right, won't we?"

"Yes."

"There won't be marriage and children."

"Perhaps not."

She frowned slightly. "I'm on my own in this conversation, aren't I?"

"I've told you how I feel, Della. There's nothing else I can say that I haven't already said."

"I – I don't want you to be cheated in life, Perry."

"You've known me for five years. Have I ever allowed myself to be cheated in life?"

"N-no," she replied, still uncertain. "Tell me one more time and I promise I'll never bring it up again."

His hand slid over the upholstery and settled at the apex of her hip and thigh. "It's you and me, kid," he told her. "No second thoughts, no regrets."

"Are you disappointed we won't get to the lake for a few days?"

He smiled at her abrupt switch in topics. "Not in the least. Firstly, I'm beside myself that you bought a car. Secondly, the prospect of seeing the heartland of America with you is very appealing."

"You don't think it was selfish of me to buy a car?"

Perry sat up straighter in the seat. "Selfish? I think you more than proved this week there isn't a selfish bone in your body. You were much more charitable to those people than I would have been."

"I'm beginning to feel guilty," she admitted. "I wanted to do something with the money that would please you, and since you're always harping on me to get a car…"

"I harp because I don't like you taking taxis and busses to work," Perry reminded her a bit sternly. "I'm very pleased. I'll be much more relaxed knowing that you can drive yourself around town."

She gave a little snort. "We'll see about that."

Perry stared at the swiftly passing landscape, forming a question that he had not yet asked. "Why _**did**_ you give it all away, Della? You could have taken everything and been a very wealthy woman."

Della didn't answer right away as she pondered what words would best convey her frame of mind about the wealth she was born into. "My family may not be impressed by what I've accomplished in my life so far," she began slowly, "but I'm proud of myself and happier than I thought I ever could be. I did nothing to earn Grandmother's estate. The only way I could possibly keep my pride and happiness was to give everything away."

"You could have taken some of it for a rainy day."

She shook her head. "I have a rainy day fund. I also have a retirement fund. The funds may barely contain three digits, but what money is in them I earned."

"Integrity, thy name is Della Street."

"The pupil is only as good as the teacher."

Perry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You've got that bass ackwards, my dear."

She shook her head again. "There are times you teeter dangerously on the line between legality and illicitness, but at the core of everything you do is integrity and loyalty and a sense of justice not many attorneys – hell, not many men, period – possess. Not everyone understands that about you because your undisguised glee in besting the police, Hamilton Burger, and especially the guilty party detracts from your motives. It drives me nuts, by the way, but it's who you are, and I wouldn't have you any other way."

"Whatever good you see in me is a reflection of you," Perry insisted.

Perry noticed suddenly that she had taken an exit and steered the brand-new Impala onto a partially concealed dirt two-track. She put the car in park, turned off the engine, and turned fully to face him. "What I see in you was always there," she disagreed tremulously. "I saw it the instant we met."

Perry locked eyes with Della, the woman no other could possibly hope to equal, the one woman who truly loved him for _**him**_, blatant deficiencies included. What could he possibly say to her that would live up to her words? "And yet you waited two years before you slept with me."

Her response was one of the reasons he loved her up, down, and inside out, and possibly the reason they would most certainly be all right: she laughed.

* * *

Della drove until dusk that night, refusing Perry's offer to take over the driving chore. When she spied a sign advertising 'clean, secluded' cabins, she veered onto the road and followed it several miles to cabins that were freshly painted and decidedly secluded. Perry rented only one cabin, under the names of Carter and Henrietta Vander Velde, which Della found incredibly humorous, dissolving into a fit of giggles that Perry was afraid might arouse suspicion in the proprietors of the cabins as they watched the couple unload their luggage (Perry was thankful it all matched and that the sour-faced husband and wife couldn't see the 'DM' stamped on each piece). But Della covered her fit beautifully by calling out that she was unaccustomed to hearing her full first name, preferring to be called 'Henny'. Perry had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. The last items out of the trunk were the teal metal Coleman cooler they had bought and the blanket Perry had appropriated from the rented Galaxie as a surprise for Della, and when he swung away from the Impala, he caught her looking at him with a tender, wondrous expression. The extra five dollars he had given to Jeff Kuiper as compensation for the car rental company was definitely well-spent for that expression alone.

They had stopped around noon in the last large city they would encounter for many miles and stocked the cooler with enough food to get them to California, an assortment of soft drinks, and two bottles of wine. Lunch had been roast beef on sourdough rolls and a cold macaroni salad washed down with icy root beer at a park in a grove of mature trees alongside a winding _crik_. Dinner was tuna salad on beds of garden bib lettuce with fresh cantaloupe for dessert, seated on the blanket-covered steps of the small fairly clean cabin. There were ten cabins positioned around a small patch of grass, and all but one cabin was occupied. Every occupant of each cabin was seated either on the steps or in lawn chairs enjoying the warm, dry night air and watching a few children chase fireflies on the grassy patch. Perry and Della chatted with an overly friendly elderly couple from Pennsylvania who were on their way to Washington State simply because neither had ever been there, and wasn't it fortunate that they had noticed the sign for the cabins before it got too late? After thirty minutes of pleasant chit-chat, Perry stood and pulled Della to her feet, offering their good-nights.

The bed wasn't large, and the mattress sagged, but the sheets were soft and clean and the pillows plump. They made love slowly and quietly, whispered endearments and rapturous sighs contained within the clapboard walls of the dark cabin. Afterwards, Della lay across Perry's body as they slept in the sagging middle of the mattress, replete and contentedly at peace, and deliriously happy to be out of the Street house.

* * *

Perry awoke at dawn and carefully slipped from the bed. After standing at the foot for several minutes admiring Della's sleeping form, he finally flung the covers aside, grabbed her ankles, pulled her toward him, hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her to the bathroom for a 'buddy' shower and a bit of soap-slickened hanky-panky. They were packed and on the road by seven-thirty, Della with damp hair curling around her face and Perry with an inordinately goofy smile on his lips.

Della allowed Perry to drive her car after cautioning him about watching the speedometer and not yanking the gear shift from reverse to drive like he did when driving his own car, and she spent a half hour climbing into the back seat and then into the front seat, and back again, marveling that the beautiful car was actually hers. Perry loved seeing her so relaxed and happy, finally free of the negative effect her emotionless family and the equally cold house had on her. She vehemently denied holding any animosity toward him about the past week, pragmatically pointing out that they had learned important facts and she had put to rest the spirit of her grandmother and a childhood that had haunted her. She was ready to face the future, their future, as a whole person, solemnly promising to tell him more stories about her childhood as their life together unfolded.

There were subjects each consciously avoided, subjects that were too deep and hurtful to talk about in a car going eighty miles an hour down the highway, so they settled for turning up the radio loud, playing 'I Spy' from lists Della jotted down in her steno pad, and making up stories for the people in houses they passed as they often did when driving around Beverly Hills. Perry couldn't remember a time when he had laughed so much or felt so young and carefree. Della literally sparkled, nothing and no one escaping her alternately pithy and downright hysterical comments. After having spent an entire week with her family, he marveled at the strength it had taken to triumph over the oppressive sterility and outright hostility of her upbringing to become the wittiest, most intuitive, smartest woman he had ever known. She could be anything she wanted to be – her acuity for business and the pragmatism she must have been born with would have translated into success in the corporate world – but she had instead chosen to assist him with his practice because his world was 'more interesting'. She liked helping people, liked the excitement surrounding his cases, liked being a part of something bigger than chasing profits for the sake of the bottom line. His success as an attorney was directly linked to her, and he made sure she received every bit of credit she deserved.

She had been right: he hadn't bargained for her and what she would bring to his life when he'd hired her. He'd only known that the instant she walked into his office the world seemed a better place because of her smile. He wanted that smile, needed that smile, needed _**her**_ in his life. And by some stroke of divine fortune she'd decided she needed him as well.

After splitting four games of 'I Spy', and debating the issue of lures versus live bait when fishing for blue gills, radio _Gunsmoke_ versus television _Gunsmoke_, and classical economics versus Keynesian economics, they stopped for dinner at a quaint diner which led to more debates, this time the subjects being Miracle Whip versus mayonnaise and the three-tined fork versus the four-tined fork. Perry's head was spinning and his sides hurt from laughing, but the world had never been a better place. Back in the car, Della snuggled against Perry's side and fell into what he figured was the best sleep she'd had since the night Eve Wyman crossed her threshold, prompting him to pass several signs for motels and cabins long after the sun had set.

He had just passed an exit off of which a sign proclaimed the last lodging for thirty-seven miles and was approaching an exit that would eventually lead to some small town but was dark and desolate as far as the eye could see when he realized Della's hand was moving in the vicinity of his belt buckle and that her teeth were firmly grasping his earlobe. Without a word, he took the exit to nowhere, and drove between acres and acres of tall corn before finding an opening that would camouflage the Impala. Della scrambled into the back seat and had removed her blouse by the time Perry killed the engine and joined her.

There in the middle of a field permeated with the dry, pungent aroma of sweet corn, they discovered that the back seat of a Chevy Impala was more than adequate to accommodate amorous activity.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

It was approaching midnight when Della lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. "Are we there?"

Perry smiled. She had been dozing and waking to ask that same question since falling asleep around nine o'clock. The lake was so close they could almost hear the mournful cry of the loons that nested on it. Estimating that it would be very early morning by the time they finally arrived at their longed-for destination they had nevertheless decided not to stop at a motel and to eat sandwiches as they continued to drive. "Not yet. Another couple of hours."

"Do you want me to drive the rest of the way? You've done most of the driving today and I've had enough sleep to keep me awake." She slid her arm around his shoulders and nuzzled his neck. "We'll get there faster if I drive."

"I'd rather arrive in one piece."

"Here we go again. Should I have hit the dog?"

"I saw no dog. All I know is one minute we were driving on solid pavement and the next we were careening over someone's lawn toward a brick house."

She made a face and pinched his arm. "I swerved into a _**driveway**_, the house was _**stucco**_, I stopped well short of it, and you didn't see a dog because you were sawing logs at the time it ran out in front of the car." He had been teasing her mercilessly about the 'phantom' dog since the previous evening when they had driven through a residential area in search of an advertised bed and breakfast, ignoring her protests that the dog, a German shepherd, had actually existed.

He batted her hand away as she pinched him again. "Ow! Make a note that four days alone together in a car is our maximum limit."

Her breath was warm and unsettling on his neck as her lips roamed with desirous abandon, at odds with the pain inflicted by her fingers. "I'll back it up to three," she said. "You were perfectly fine until last night."

"I'm perfectly fine now. _**Ow! **_Cut it out, will you?" He shrugged away from her.

Della collapsed against the seat laughing after doling out a nip to his neck. "What was it you said to me? Stop spoiling the party?"

"Being pinched and bitten is no party," he grumbled, even though he was smiling. "I don't snore."

"What's that?"

"I said I don't snore. You shouldn't say things that aren't true."

"You most certainly do. It's odd, but you only snore when you fall asleep in a car."

"Now you're being silly on top of prevaricating."

"Pull over," she directed with dictatorial haughtiness. "Someone as grumpy as you doesn't deserve to drive my lovely car."

"Someone as bratty as you doesn't deserve to own this car."

She folded her arms and arched one eyebrow at him. "Now you're being obnoxious on top of grumpy."

Perry drove for several seconds along the deserted, winding road that would eventually lead them to the lake house belonging to Harvey Sayers, the beacon that had virtually kept them sane during the ordeal that had been their stay in the Street mansion. The shoulder widened around one more bend and he suddenly jerked the wheel, tires crunching noisily over gravel as he brought the car to a bouncing stop.

"Now what?" She inquired, perturbed that he'd driven her new car onto the loose gravel.

"Now," he said raggedly, "I apologize." He twisted in the seat, grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to him in an almost savage kiss. After plundering her mouth with his insistent tongue, he drew back and held her at arm's length. "I'm sorry. You can drive if you want."

"No, I rescind my kind offer."

"Will you stay awake and keep me company?"

"As long as we don't talk about anything that took place between the night my mother showed up and the morning we left that horrible town."

"We'll have to talk about it eventually. Why not get it out of the way now?"

"Because I don't want anything to spoil our trip to the lake."

"And once we get to the lake you won't want to spoil our arrival, or the days or the nights or the fishing or our departure…we have to talk, Della." He killed the engine, grabbed the key, and jumped out of the car. Della climbed up onto her knees and peered out the rear window to watch him.

He slammed the trunk and made his way back to the open driver's door. "Here, take this," he said, shoving a lidded wooden keepsake chest into the car.

Della leaned over and carefully pulled the chest toward her, cornering herself against the passenger door. "What is it?"

Perry climbed back in the car and started it. He pulled back onto the winding road before answering. "It's a present from your father. I think it will get the conversation rolling and keep us occupied until we reach the lake. Open it."

"I won't be able to see anything. It's dark," she pointed out, regarding the box with suspicion.

Perry reached up and snapped on the overhead light. "There. Plenty of light. Open it."

Della continued to eye the little chest suspiciously. What on earth could her father have possibly given her? She wasn't sure if she wanted to lift the lid and find out. "Do you know what's inside?"

"Della, open the box. There is nothing inside that will bite you."

"You do know what's inside!"

"Open the box."

Della made no move to open the box. "Why are you so anxious for me to open it?"

"If you would open the damn thing you'd know."

She still made no move to open the box. "I don't know," she said with a little frown, pushing the chest toward him. "Why did he give it to you? Why didn't he give it to me himself?"

"He showed it to me to prove a point. I tried to convince him to give it to you, but he thought you would be more receptive if I gave it to you. Shows you how much he knows."

"Perry, I don't want anything from him." Her voice was small, her eyes huge as she stared at the box.

"Then astonishingly your father was right and it's from me. Baby, open the box. I think you'll like what's inside."

"Do you like what's inside?"

He had never encountered anyone more determined not to do something. He reached over the chest and sought her hand. She grasped it with nervous, clammy hands. "I like it a lot," he told her with a gentle smile. "How about I lift the lid?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll open the box." Her hand hovered over the box another ten seconds before she grasped the latch and lifted the lid.

* * *

"What do I do with all that stuff?" Della shifted slightly, pulling his arm around her more securely. Every article had been pulled from the chest, examined, discussed, and returned to chest. Except for one item, which she held tightly in her hand.

"You keep it in a closet or under a bed. I have a very similar box my mother kept for me. Bart has one too."

"But what do you _**do **_with it?"

For an hour Perry had watched as Della's childhood revealed itself in the trinkets her grandmother had chosen to preserve, watched as the love of his life rediscovered her life, watched as the woman who had raised her came back to life. Della had been curious, but eerily unemotional, and now the keepsake chest rested on the passenger floorboard, along with the discarded remains of their dinner sandwiches. "Every once in a while, when I can't see the forest for the trees, I open the box to remind myself that someone who didn't smoke loved me enough to show off a misshapen dirt brown and mustard yellow clay ashtray I made when I was six. She kept it on the coffee table until I made her put it away when I was thirteen. She wrapped it in a scarf she knitted for me and put it in my box."

Della took his hand and kissed it softly. "I love to hear stories about your mother. If I had a time machine, I would go back to let her know what a good man you turned out to be and to thank her for being such a good mother."

"What you see in me…" Perry began before clearing his throat and reaching up to caress her face, taking his eyes from the road momentarily to meet hers. "I hope I never do anything to make you think less of me, because I don't believe I could live with myself if I did."

She hadn't cried since the morning they'd made their getaway, but now tears pooled in her eyes once again. "And I hope I never disappoint you ever again as I did last week."

"Della, whatever disappointment I felt in you very quickly disappeared when I began to realize that your family is populated with stick figures pretending to be human beings. If anything, you should be disappointed with _**me**_ for bullying you onto the plane. Do you want to hear something funny?"

She nodded. "I could use a little funny right now."

"It's not ha-ha funny. It's actually more ironic than funny, but I think you'll get a kick out of it. I may have in large part taken you home because I wanted to fix whatever was wrong between you and your family the way you fixed what was wrong between me and mine."

A laugh bubbled up through her tears. "Mr. Fix-It. That is rather ironic, since the last thing in the world I want is for things to be fixed between me and my family."

"I would have known that if you had talked to me," he told her gently.

"The hissy-fit I threw the day we flew out didn't clue you in?"

"I had no specifics to work with, only general protestations. I had to see for myself before I understood. If you had told me about the Pathetique or the pretty stones or Grandma Bitty kidnapping you, or how Carter is the most pompous ass who ever walked the earth, I might have reacted very differently."

She crawled back into the crook of his arm and laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh. "Twenty-twenty hindsight and armchair quarterbacking will do us no good, especially since it turned out I really did need to be there."

"Good point."

"I was mad at you, madder than I've ever been. I rely on you and you weren't there."

"I was there. Lord knows I was there."

She shook her head, her curls tickling his chin, which made him smile. "No, you disappeared and didn't reappear until we were in the kitchen after you read Grandmother's letter. I felt so alone and you wouldn't listen to me. I didn't know what to do, so I struck out at you whenever I could."

"You only landed glancing blows," he assured her. "I managed to walk most of them off."

"A lot of men would have walked out."

"It's a good thing I'm not a lot of men."

"It certainly is. I kind of like you, but you're a tough sell on most people."

"Well, it's over," he said with philosophical finality, ignoring her barbed remark. "All we have to do is sign whatever documents Jeremy and Hank send us…" he broke off with a slight shudder as he realized the eerie resemblance of his words to those of Della's father. "I'll make sure not to bother you with the boring legal stuff unless it's absolutely necessary."

"I don't mind boring legal stuff. Sometimes it's a welcome respite from all the exciting legal stuff."

"The law can be exciting," he said with mock huffiness.

"The way you practice law it can be."

Perry was silent as he steered the Impala around yet another curve in the road. Trees lined each side of the nearly deserted highway, and if not for the moon's brightness on the clear night they would be in total darkness. "I'm not everything my mother hoped I would be. I have no noble cause or higher purpose for being an attorney. What drives me to put everything on the line for my clients is the excitement I get out of manipulating the law and delving into its complexities, nothing more."

"That's not true," Della protested. "You've taken on plenty of clients because you felt they were overwhelmed by circumstances and deserved someone to fight for them."

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret: it's knowing you that allows me see those types of clients. Because of you I've become more tolerant and less disdainful of how people react to situations, of how clear thinking abandons them and they invariably do the wrong thing at the wrong time. I always defended clients because their plights intrigued me and challenged me to circumnavigate their flaws and get to the truth. But that changed when you started working with me. I began to see people from a different perspective and not be so disdaining of their flaws."

She sat up and away from him, regarding him with raised eyebrows. "So I've turned you into a marshmallow?"

Perry grinned, the arch reaction to what he'd told her exactly what he'd expected from her, but how she'd phrased the question was completely unexpected. That was one of the things he loved about her – how she stood up to him, how she amused him, how she usually made her points in ways that exposed some bit of foolishness in his thought processes. He had accused her of not listening to him while she planned her next clever retort, but he had been wrong – the very cleverness of her words showed that she did indeed listen to him. "I wouldn't go that far. I can tell by your expression when what I say or do in regard to a client displeases you, and I find myself automatically making adjustments to change that expression. And more often than not those adjustments in my behavior lead to far more satisfying conclusions to cases than if I'd charged ahead with my usual belligerence."

"You are a good man," she persisted, her voice low and quiet. "Only a good man could recognize that about himself."

He shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "No, I may do good things, but I do them for purely hedonistic reasons. Good men do good things naturally and for no reason."

"You're good to me."

His mouth lifted in a quick smile. "As I said, purely hedonistic reasons."

"This is no joking matter, Perry. Where is all the self-loathing coming from? Is it because I said your mother would be proud of you? She couldn't help but be proud of you. Look at what you've accomplished in your life – and you're still a young man! There isn't a criminal attorney in the country with a record like yours, which is why law schools as far away as Washington D.C. are soliciting you to lecture." She shook his arm for emphasis. "You told me it didn't matter **_why_** my grandmother left me everything, the important fact was she _**did **_leave me everything. Walk the walk, Mr. Mason, if you're going to talk the talk."

Was it really as simple as she said – as he had said? It didn't matter why he did what he did. It only mattered that he did it. And it didn't matter why his clients did what they did, because a good defense dealt only with who did what, when and where and how. Let the journalists wet themselves over why. "I've never worked harder at anything in my life than I work at being good to you."

Her fingers traced the serious lines of his lips until they relaxed. "I can tell," she whispered. "No man has ever treated me the way you do."

"I didn't always treat women the way I should have," he admitted remorsefully. "I was better than Harvey, and definitely better than Paul, but I still have plenty of regrets. I don't want to regret anything with regard to you, which is why I make you so mad at times."

"As long as we're making confessions, I'll admit that usually when I say I'm mad at you I'm really mad at myself."

He grinned at her, dimples deep and distracting. "I figured that out a long time ago. Have you noticed I never get mad at you?"

"You said I piss you off," she reminded him.

"No, I said what you do pisses me off."

"I refuse to split hairs with you so late at night."

"You mean so early in the morning."

"Stop it."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. However, your petty distinctions annoy the hell out of me."

His grin widened. "I could do this forever."

"What, annoy the hell out of me?"

His hand slid from the steering wheel to rest on her thigh. "I could talk to you forever and come back for more."

She raised an eyebrow. "You must be getting tired, Mr. Mason. I don't believe I've ever heard anything as sappy as that come out of your mouth."

"I am tired," he admitted. "Are you going to tell me about that scruffy thing in your hand?"

"Not yet."

"Della…"

"Perry," she countered. "When – **_if _**I decide to tell you about it, you'll realize why I didn't want to say anything while we were driving sixty miles an hour down a dark highway at one thirty in the morning."

Perry let out an awe-inspiringly long and loud yawn. "Then I'd say it's a good thing we're only about twenty minutes from the lake, because you **_will_** tell me about that thing tonight."

"You mean this morning," Della shot back impudently, splitting the ultimate hair.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Harvey Sayers insisted that Della decorate the large master bedroom at the lake house according to her taste and he would consider the smaller room at the head of the stairs his, maintaining he would be more comfortable in it since he never brought female guests for visits. Aside from a mention buried deep within the prenuptial agreements his family insisted be drawn up every time he became engaged, his fiancées and wives had no inkling the house he escaped to for fishing trips 'with the boys' had actually been built by his father. And if they did somehow find out, the deed was filed under someone else's name, so it was doubtful they would ever discover its location or value. He called it protecting a family treasure and found nothing wrong with keeping its existence a secret. Besides, if the house remained a secret, his good friend Perry would have a place to go that was far from reporters and gossip mongers who dogged him and his lovely secretary to define their relationship in more sensational terms than employer/employee. That is if they actually enjoyed a more sensational relationship. Harvey could only surmise about the couple – that is until he saw the size of the bed Della bought.

Della had taken great delight in fixing up the bedroom, and thought it had turned out quite well for having been pieced together from local estate sales and second-hand shops. The king-size four poster bed of sturdy oak fit the size of the room and Perry was thrilled that his feet didn't hang over the edge of the mattress. So thrilled in fact, that he didn't complain about the lemon yellow walls and yellow, white, and green block patterned quilt and the overabundance of matching pillows in various sizes she had chosen. Della did love pillows. Two bedside tables, a fifty-four inch wide six drawer dresser, a five drawer tallboy chest, and a writing desk, all generously bankrolled by Harvey, made their way into the room. The previous year she had added a large green rag rug, sheer white curtains, and two white hobnail milk glass hurricane table lamps. It was a pretty room, but the scale and strong grain of the oak furniture kept it from being too feminine for a man of Perry's size and decidedly masculine personality. Although she suspected he would have slept perfectly fine surrounded by frills, she was proud of the fact he felt comfortable in the room.

Perry insisted upon emptying the trunk of the car completely before heading upstairs, stacking their luggage just inside the French doors and heading back out one last time to heft the metal cooler from the trunk. It was empty save for a few soft drinks, so he left it on the deck before heading back into the house and closing and locking the French doors behind him. He picked up the two largest suitcases and strode across the expansive great room to the stairs, pausing briefly to get a better grip on the luggage and to take a deep, purifying breath.

They had finally made it. The week spent in Della's home town, in the soulless mansion where she had grown up with not only a harridan of a grandmother, but a distant, unloving father and an excessively self-important brother as well, was now four days behind them. No long-lost mothers, kidnapping step-grandmothers, best friend burglars, or cheating boyfriends would intrude on their time together. They had four days alone with one another to wash the film of antipathy from their bodies, to cleanse their souls of impassivity, and to fully appreciate what it was about each of them that made life together so grand. He jogged up the stairs and headed for the large master bedroom at the end of the catwalk hallway they delighted in referring to as 'theirs'.

A trail of feminine clothing led to the bathroom and he could hear Della humming happily over the sound of running water as she drew a bath. She had been talking about a bath since the first day of their car trip, as none of the cabins or motels or rooms in stately Victorian houses had provided a tub. Perry dropped the suitcases and stood listening to her. When was the last time she had hummed? The day her mother had first appeared? Yes, that was it. They had stopped off at the office following the satisfactory end to their latest trial to deposit brief cases and collect messages from Gertie, along with a breathless synopsis of the goings-on of the office in their absences, and she had hummed nearly the entire twenty minutes of their stay. Perhaps she had an inkling of what lay of ahead of them that evening, that the door of her apartment would barely close before he swept her into his arms and over his shoulder, carrying her to the bedroom where he would make exhaustively complete, intensely sweet love to her. She was an incredibly physical woman, perceptible of his slightest touch, and she may have detected his intent before the thought had fully formed in his own mind from the way he held her elbow or placed his fingers at the small of her back in the briefest caress.

He tapped his knuckles on the door and walked in without an invitation just as she was stepping into the tub, treating him to a breathtaking view of her deliciously rounded bottom and magnificently sculpted back. He involuntarily sucked in a breath.

"You've seem my rear end before," she said without turning around, lowering herself into the fragrant water skimmed with a layer of frothy bubbles.

"And every time I'm amazed." He crossed to the commode and seated himself. "I wanted to hear more of the concert. But I'm wondering why '_Over the Rainbow'_?"

She leaned back against the cast iron tub and sighed in utter ecstasy. "Because there's no place like home." She sighed again. "And don't you dare split hairs about it being the song Dorothy sings about how much better the world must be away from home."

He grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it." He bent to retrieve something from the floor. "_'Over the Rainbow'_ makes more sense than this. Why did you bring this in here?"

Della closed her eyes but Perry detected the sparkle of tears on her lashes anyway. "I haven't seen it in a long time," she said, her voice rough with emotion.

"Tell me. We're not in a car going sixty miles an hour anymore."

She pulled her arm out of the water and draped it over her face, covering her eyes. "His name is Mr. Kitty," she began and stopped, moving her arm just enough to peek at Perry and the stuffed tabby kitten he held in his hands. "Aunt Mae gave him to me for my fourth birthday. He was my favorite toy, especially since Grandmother wouldn't let me have a real cat or toys that you could actually play with. I took him everywhere with me and slept with him every night."

Perry turned the kitty in his hands. "There's a tag in the ear. Good Lord, it's a Steiff. Mae must have paid a fortune for it."

"I'm sure she did. She tried very hard to make up for Grandmother's…_**practicality**_ when it came to what constituted fun for a little girl. Grandmother was almost obsessive about my clothes and my hair, and I had a closet full of beautiful dresses and more hair ribbons than any girl in town, but I had no toy chest. All I had were fancy porcelain 'look at' dolls lined up on the shelves in my bedroom and a hundred books kept in a small case in Father's study. She would dress me up and shoo me into the parlor to practice the piano or to read a book and some days all I did was weep. Five year olds aren't supposed to spend their days weeping."

"Mr. Kitty looks to be in pretty good shape," Perry observed, still turning the little stuffed toy in his hands, admiring the workmanship of the venerable Steiff company. He hoped he could keep himself from breaking down during her story. He feared it was heading toward something as traumatic as when her father had thrown her painstakingly gathered pretty stones onto the ground, and despite his contention that he wanted to know more about her childhood, each subsequent story dwarfed the last in pathos.

"I took good care of him," Della replied. "Sometimes he was the only…sometimes I had only him to talk to. He never told me to sit up straight or to stop biting my lip or to comb my hair and fix the ribbon. He was mine and I loved him."

"What happened? Why haven't you seen him in a long time?" He could hardly bear the pain he felt emanating from her as she continued to hide behind her arm, refusing to look at him.

"When I was nine Grandmother told me I was too old to play with baby toys and she gave him to the church charity drive."

Perry suspected her answer to be true, as far as it went. "After everything we've been through, you still don't trust me?"

She let herself slip deeper into the water before continuing. "I wanted to be a Girl Scout when I was eight. Grandmother said that troop meetings and activities would interfere with schoolwork as well as with piano and ballet lessons. But I begged and begged and finally she allowed me to join the troop Miranda belonged to only if I could keep up my grades and lessons. I loved being a Girl Scout and thought I was keeping up with everything. The summer I turned nine I wanted to go to Camp Merrie Woode with the other girls in my troop, and after more begging and some support from June, Grandmother let me go."

"And…?"

"And they fed a hundred little girls spoiled sauerkraut and sausages for dinner on the third night. At least seventy of us, including the camp counselors, troop leaders and even the nurse, got violently ill. They called all the parents and Grandmother was the first to arrive. She bundled me into the back seat of the car, plunked a bucket in my lap, and drove me home. The only words she said to me the entire way were 'open the window' when I got sick in the bucket."

"My God Della, you were just a kid! It wasn't your fault you got sick."

"Oh, I found out it wasn't just the fact I was sick. I had to drag myself upstairs and not only clean myself, but the bucket too before I could get into bed. And when she came to make sure I had followed all of her instructions, I asked for Mr. Kitty. Oh, I forgot to mention that she wouldn't allow me to take him to camp because only babies slept with baby toys and I was a big girl who made her own decisions."

Dread crept over Perry as his mind skipped ahead to what Della was most certainly about to tell him. He wanted to know about her childhood and the grandmother who had possibly loved her but whose brutal disregard for affection had devastated her granddaughter, but there was a limit to the devastation he could endure reflected in her eyes. "Della, I – "

"Let me finish the story, Perry," she fairly barked at him. "This is what you've been whining about for me to do, so just sit there and listen, okay?" She uncovered her eyes and used both arms to pull herself into an upright sitting position. "She told me she gave Mr. Kitty to the church for a charity drive because some little girl who respected her elders and didn't have the advantages I had deserved him more."

"Della, please –"

"I got a 'B' in math," she said, lifting huge, pain-filled eyes to his equally pain-filled eyes. "I got a 'B' in math and she took away my only toy as punishment for not keeping up. I thought he was gone forever…Perry, how could anyone be that cruel to a child? How could anyone think a nine year old who just wanted to be a lousy Girl Scout didn't deserve to keep her only damn toy?"

Perry stood, yanked a towel from the bar and held it out in front of him. Della pushed herself up and out of the tub, burrowing into the towel and allowing Perry to engulf her in a hug. He held her, rocking her gently, as she trembled uncontrollably in his arms. Too angry and confused to shed a tear, all she could do to express the overpowering hurt her grandmother had caused was to stamp one foot over and over in abject frustration.

"And then I open that keepsake chest and there Mr. Kitty is, after all these years. She didn't really give him away. What purpose did it serve to hide my toy in that box? A child deserves to be loved and I wasn't loved, not the way I should have been." The repetitive stamping of her foot ceased. "All my life I've fixated on why she couldn't love me, why she pushed me relentlessly into things I didn't want to do, why she knowingly caused so much pain for so many people, and it's gotten me nowhere."

Perry crushed her to him when she couldn't finish her tortured thought. "I don't know what to say, Della," he whispered into her hair. "Tell me how I can help you with this."

"You know what to say. You've already said it. We discussed it not two hours ago when you took being called a good man as an insult."

He set her away from him to look at her intently before drawing her close once again. "It doesn't matter why she did what she did," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "It only matters that she did it."

"I've had a lot of time to think recently." She hugged him hard. "You don't have to say it. No shit, huh? But when I think about my childhood and what my family did to me, if I think about it merely as things that happened and not torture myself with trying to apply intent or make myself crazy looking for reasons for unreasonable behavior, I'm much more at peace with myself. For a while I thought I had been born bad and therefore deserved to be controlled and punished, and I truly tried to be what everyone wanted me to be…and I was miserable until I accepted that there wasn't anything wrong with me – so phooey on them. If they didn't like me, tough toenails. I liked me."

Perry realized he had been holding his breath during her entire speech and let it out slowly. "And I like you," he told her shakily.

"Yes you do," she affirmed with confidence. "It took running two thousand miles away from home and finding friends like Janet and Evelyn and Estelle, and even Paul and that band of miscreants you pal around with to confirm what I had been telling myself."

"What about me?" He leaned back slightly and placed his hands on either side of her face, her beautiful, beloved face.

"You," she cooed softly, "are my reward for staying true to myself."

He opened his mouth to say something, because he felt he should, that she deserved a reply as extraordinary as what she'd said, but no sound emerged. This time there really was nothing he could say that would approach the import of her words – no sincere affirmation of his feelings, no joke, nothing. All he could do was hold her and hope she could feel that his heart beat for her and her alone.


	35. Chapter 35

_Here it is, the final chapter of this saga resembling a Russian novel (one of my all-time favorite reviews!). I discovered a lot about myself while writing the story, and several times doubted what I was creating, but my lovely friend and head cheerleader Michelle would have nothing of my doubts. It is she who spurred this story to completion, and she has my deep and sincere thanks for continually nudging me along._

_I'd like to mention that I am first and foremost a lover of ESG's novels. While the TV show is one of my favorites of all time, it is the novel characterizations of Perry and Della and real-life incidents that form the basis of my stories, with details from the show that pique my interest tossed into the mix. In the novels Perry was gruff and rough and tough, but he truly liked Della, who was witty and wise and smarter than the average woman. He was tall and athletic, with wavy black hair and 'granite hard' features. She was considerably younger, hazel-eyed, trim, and had curly hair. Their conversations were highlights of the novels and my goal in writing fan fiction was to apply those conversations in settings removed from the office or courtroom._

_In response to wishes for my P&D universe to include wedded bliss, I'm afraid that has not occurred in any story outlines currently in my 'bunny' file. However, look for a new story from our resident master of romance, Michelle Weiner, because without giving too much away, you will be VERY happy. _

_I hope to write another story before baseball season begins again__, possibly revolving around the mysterious Ellen or the even more mysterious 'fact' Perry became a judge – a tenant of the movies that both confounds and intrigues me._

_There was a bit of confusion surrounding a conversation in chapter 15 between Jameson Street and Perry that I'd like to clear up: it was Eve, not Della, whose life Jameson wanted to save but still allow her to be a woman._

_Thank you for reading and for all the comments. It is gratifying to know that the story is appreciated. _

* * *

Chapter 35

Following an eight minute hug in the bathroom, Perry left Della to finish her bath while he invaded Harvey's smaller bathroom to take a shower. She was out of the tub and in bed by the time he returned, having pulled back the covers just on her side so she could crawl beneath them. The lamp on his side of the bed was the only light in the room, and he had to marvel anew at how comfortable and welcoming she had made this room for them. Harvey had asked her to replace whatever furnishings she found lacking in the entire house after seeing the results of her decorating talent, and she had fretted several times about letting him down during the cross-country trip to the lake. If by any slim chance Perry felt he could share her with another human being in the next four days, he would take her to the shops she favored to pick out a chair or a lamp, something that would give her a sense of accomplishment in regard to Harvey's request. Harvey expected nothing in a certain timeframe, but Della was Della, and if improving the comfort and ambience of the lake house could in some small way repay his generosity and respectful silence in regard to her involvement with his childhood friend, then she would do the best job she could.

Della had also opened the windows, and a cool, gentle breeze rippled through the sheer curtains. Sleeping would be so much more pleasant at the lake than in any of the places they had stayed during their trip west, and definitely more pleasant than at the Street house. Not simply because of the difference in temperature and humidity, but because they were truly alone – the nearest neighbor being two acres upstream on the channel. He did everything he could to carve out time at the lake house because sharing a bed that was 'theirs' and not 'his' or 'hers' meant a lot to Della. What he hadn't told her, but he surmised she knew, was it meant a lot to him as well.

"Are you asleep?" He hadn't taken boxers or pajama bottoms with him to Harvey's bathroom, and was rooting around in his suitcase for either item.

"Uh huh. Blissfully."

"I thought so." He stepped into lightweight pajama bottoms, yanked at the drawstring, and tied it while skirting the bed to his side. She hadn't even removed the accent pillows before climbing in, just pushed them all to his side of the bed in a haphazard pile. He couldn't help but smile smugly as he pitched six pillows onto the floor without her objecting. He grabbed the quilt and pulled it down.

Nestled on his pillow was a jar. A glass jar filled with pea to marble sized stones. A wide ribbon of black watch plaid had been tied around the jar in a perfect, crisp bow. And lying propped up against the pillow was a photograph of a little girl in a bathing suit with curls falling down her back sitting atop a mound of stones, examining a handful and studiously assessing their 'prettiness'.

Perry stood stock still, staring at the jar and the candid photograph of the lovely child who as a woman filled his life with indescribable joy, as dumbstruck as when he'd opened Della's door to find Eve Wyman standing on the other side. His eyes finally moved across the pillows to find her watching him, her eyes bright, her breathing shallow with anticipation.

"Do you like your present?"

She barely had the words out before Perry was in the bed next to her, pulling her up and against him, enfolding her with arms that trembled, kissing her with lips with exquisite tenderness, telling her more with his touch than he could ever tell her with words. The reaction of this big, powerfully masculine man to a simple jar of stones was her undoing and she let huge, happy tears run down her cheeks, which he kissed away as quickly as they fell.

"Della…darling…how did you do this? When did you have time to…this is the best…I can't believe you made this for me." His insistent mouth captured hers again before she could answer.

"I didn't have time to make it," she said between highly pleasing assaults on her mouth. "It's Grandmother's."

Perry froze, his lips stilled against hers. She smiled and took his bottom lip between her teeth and pulled on it gently, enjoying his stunned speechlessness.

"Your grandmother's? She kept it? Where did you find it?" He abruptly released her and picked up the jar for the first time, turning it so that the stones fell against the glass with soft _clinks_, completely mesmerizing him.

"I found it the morning we left. You were shouting at me, but I had one more thing to do. I went into Grandmother's room, where I'd never been allowed to go, and there it was on the top shelf of the built-in. That was when I realized I would never figure her out and that I should take what you said to heart. The ribbon is mine from when I was about ten. Grandma Esther made me and Miranda matching black watch plaid jumpers and Grandmother bought the ribbon at _Woolworth's_. I couldn't give you the jar with a pink ribbon, so I was glad all my hair ribbons were still in a dresser drawer. Do you really like it?"

"Do I like it? Della, it's…I wanted one from the moment Oliver Velting told me about his."

"It's just a jar of stones," she continued, a bit of anxiety creeping into her words as she lowered her gaze to the jar held in his hands. "But I like that it's a _Mason Ball Jar _and actually says PERFECT MASON on it. I can take the ribbon off…now that I really look at it, it's not very masculine."

Perry lifted her chin and held it, his eyes dark and glistening in the soft light of the lone lamp. "Don't you dare touch my pretty stones," he said in mild warning.

Her smile leapt straight into his heart. "Thank you for loving me."

Perry sat back on his haunches, her words an emotional knock out. How did she continually do this to him? He, the big, tough lawyer who prided himself on being the clearest thinker and most likely to act rationally in any given situation was when it came to her, in reality, a…marshmallow.

* * *

Della uncurled her body from around the pillow and stretched like a cat for several moments, little purring noises of pleasure at the activity escaping from her every now and then. It felt good to wake up in this pretty room, hearing the loons call across the lake to her, smelling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee…

She sat up quickly and looked around. Perry wasn't in bed, wasn't in the room, wasn't in the adjoining bathroom. When had he awoken and why hadn't he woken her with amorous kisses to make up for lost time in their wonderfully cozy bed? They hadn't made love after she presented him with the jar of pretty stones – he had merely held her spooned up against him, his head resting on hers, his arms surrounding her protectively and possessively as she'd slipped into a deep sleep.

She rubbed her eyes and slid down from the significant height of the bed, her feet landing on the soft green rag rug with a muffled thud. Hoping he hadn't heard her get out of bed, she tiptoed across the hand scraped wood floor to the door and carefully opened it, then peeked out to see if he was in the great room. Satisfied that he must be in the kitchen directly below the bedrooms or outside, she ran lightly down the hallway and descended the stairs.

He wasn't in the kitchen, but a pot of coffee and a stoneware mug were. She poured coffee into the mug and took a deeply appreciative sip as she moved toward the French doors that led to the patio off of what could be considered the back of the house. Perry wasn't there either. She frowned and was about to turn away from the doors when those strong arms that had held her so lovingly as they slept slipped around her waist and demanding lips tantalizingly nuzzled her ear.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, lips roaming from her neck to her cheek and then to her mouth for a soft kiss. "I was afraid you might sleep the day away."

"Not a chance, unless you're sleeping the day away with me. How long have you been up?"

"Just long enough to make the coffee and walk down to Ed and Sylvia's to borrow some eggs and bacon. There is literally nothing to eat except a few slices of bread. And tragically, there is no booze. I don't want to, but we'll have to drive into town for supplies."

She made a commiserating moan of chagrin. "If we must, we must. You'll need food to keep up with the itinerary I have planned."

"I've already made out a shopping list. We'll be in and out of the store faster than you can say 'incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial'," he told her, literally growling his pleasure when her lips parted beneath his, inviting him to explore the enticing depths of her mouth.

She pushed at him lightly when he would have pulled her down and had his way with her on the kitchen floor. "Maybe I can pop into that secondhand store and find something for the house so Harvey won't think I'm falling down on my decorating duties."

Perry couldn't help but grin. Had he ever known anyone better than he knew her? And yet there was still so much to learn about her. "All that will do is inevitably delay what comes after shopping on the agenda."

"Not if I let you buy the groceries while I pick up a knick-knack or two." She laid her head on his chest. "Next on the agenda is 'Perry makes breakfast while Della gets dressed'."

He reluctantly stepped aside as she set her coffee mug down on the counter and started toward the stairs. "The polka dot sundress?" he called after her.

She shook her head at the hopeful tone of his question and continued up the stairs, where she changed into the polka dot sundress.

* * *

Perry was again nowhere to be seen when Della returned downstairs, but she could hear him – singing no less – out on the patio. He had left the French door partially open and she slipped through it sideways.

The metal and glass table had been scrubbed and set with woven rag placemats, and Perry was just setting down plates heaped with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon on them. He had transferred the coffee into a speckled stoneware coffee service Della had bought at the second hand store in town their previous trip to the lake that coordinated with a set of speckled stoneware dishes unearthed from the storage shed where Harvey kept odds and ends that had been banished from the house over the years. Perry had even found a vase into which he'd placed a freshly-picked bouquet of bright orange California poppies. There was also a cardboard box on the table, and Della's stomach clenched involuntarily.

Perry looked up at Della as she stood in front of the French doors, the white woodwork a perfect frame for the black and white dress she wore. He smiled lustily. "There you are, right in time for a hot break…what's the matter?"

She nodded toward the _Milliron Corrugated_ box resting on the table. "That cardboard box is the matter. Why is that there? Another present from my father?"

"Jeez Della, relax. It's just something I want to show you after we eat. It's in a cardboard box because they happen to be plentiful where we just came from." He pulled out a chair with a flourish and waited expectantly for her to join him. "You aren't going to let a cardboard box ruin our first morning at the lake, are you?"

Della literally and figuratively shook herself before stepping forward and allowing Perry to seat her at the table. He'd taken such care to set the table, using all the things she had brought into the house, the little touches even the men who stayed in the house for fishing and hunting trips were beginning to notice and comment on. She sheepishly cast her eyes downward as he took his own seat and began attacking the fluffy scrambled eggs.

"Maybe we should avoid cardboard boxes for a while," she suggested, trying to make her voice sound light.

"Maybe we should at that. Although as a stockholder in a mill specializing in corrugated medium produced from wood pulp and waste paper, I have lately found the lowly cardboard box to be quite fascinating."

"I need to get you out more often," she declared, picking up her fork and crushing the strips of bacon into bits that she then stirred into the scrambled eggs. Perry stared at her, appalled, as he always did when she 'ruined' her eggs in such a manner. "If the law and cardboard boxes are what you find exciting, then I'm in big trouble."

Perry grinned at her over the top of his speckled coffee mug.

She couldn't help but grin in response. "Do you have wine on the shopping list?"

"Of course."

"And scotch?"

"Absolutely."

"Bourbon?"

"I'll lower my standards and drink scotch with you. Don't you want to know what food I put on the list?"

"You put steak, potatoes, lettuce, asparagus, green beans, pork chops, spaghetti, hamburger, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and assorted deli items, including whole dill pickles from a barrel. How'd I do?"

His grin became a mock grimace. "Am I that predictable?"

"No, _**I'm**_ that predictable. I just listed all of my favorite foods. What are you getting for yourself?"

"A happy woman?" he ventured wickedly.

Della burst out laughing. "Put a fryer on your list. We'll cut it up and have grilled chicken tonight. I'll even make Brussels sprouts if they have any."

Perry scraped the last of his eggs from the plate and shoveled them into his mouth. "And I'll make a peach cobbler. Remind me to add whipping cream to the list."

She shook her head. "Ice cream."

"We'll have both," Perry declared decisively. He sat back in his chair and heaved a sigh. "Gosh Della, I…"

"You what?" she prompted as his words trailed off.

His eyes darkened as they stared intently at her. He seemed to make a decision and he pulled the cardboard box across the table toward him, reaching in and taking out what appeared to be a large book. He set it on the table between them and nudged it closer to her.

It was a photograph album, the cover a rich cranberry red, embossed with a geometric pattern around the edges and with the word 'PHOTOGRAPHS' surrounded by small polished semi-precious stones set into the leather. She looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then looked at him in curious surprise. The album was too new to be anything taken from her family home.

"Open it," he urged quietly.

She lifted her plate and set it aside before doing as bidden. Inside was a picture of a smiling baby with long curly dark hair, hands thrown above her head, and in Perry's meticulous printing was written _'Della - 10 months old' _beneath it. It was the same photograph she had taken from her Grandmother's room. "Where – where did you g-g-get this?" she stammered.

"Mr. Velting makes them. He buys the albums and 'gussies them up' with stones…oh, you mean the _**photograph**_. It was in your box. I thought maybe it was time you had a photo album of your own."

"This p-picture," she began, and gulped. "It was on Grandmother's bedside table. I took it along with the picture of me with in the pretty stones."

Perry blinked. "Why would she have two copies…Good Lord Della, I think your father put this picture in the chest right before he gave it to me. It was on top of everything - the first thing I saw when I opened the lid."

Her hands shook as she fingered the picture of herself as an infant. "Before I saw the pretty stones on the shelf I was sitting on the bed trying to wrap my mind around the pictures she had of me. She also had pictures of Father and Carter as babies, pictures of her with my grandfather, and pictures of Father with his brother and sister who didn't survive beyond infancy. Her life was full of sadness I can't even imagine."

His hand covered hers where it rested on the photo album. "Now you have an album to put those two pictures in."

"Four pictures," she corrected. "I took one of me sitting at that damn piano in an organdy dress so poufy and ruffled you can hardly detect there's a little girl wearing it, and my senior class picture." She turned her hand beneath his so that she was holding it, fingers tightly intertwined. "Do you have a picture in your box I could put in my album? Would that be okay? Is that what people do with photo albums?"

She was such an accomplished lady, sophisticated and elegant, supremely efficient and prodigiously capable, and yet she was asking him, a doltish attorney about photo album etiquette. "I think that would be more than okay." Lord yes, it was so much more than okay.

Della closed the album and traced the raised countenance of the tiny stones with the hand not grasping Perry's. "Mr. Velting has a real artistic gift. And he's a very nice man."

Perry cleared his throat. "Yes, he certainly is. He performed quite a favor for me."

"The album in beautiful."

"I'm not talking about the album. The album was actually a spur-of-the-moment purchase after your father showed me the picture." He pushed the box in front of her. "There is something else in the box. The real reason I was gone for over an hour the afternoon of the meeting was because I had an appointment with Mr. Velting to pick it up."

Della looked questioningly at the box, then at Perry with a raised eyebrow. She tentatively reached out her hand, but he suddenly grasped it with both of his.

"Before you look inside, I need to say something."

She could swear he was blushing, but didn't dare bring attention to the fact. "Okaaaaay." It was the most innocuous thing she could think of to say.

"Remember the conversation we had in the caretaker's apartment?"

"I remember everything that happened in the caretaker's apartment."

He flashed a quick smile and his flush intensified. "Well, I've been thinking about part of that conversation, particularly the names of those three little girls." He placed a finger over her mouth when she would have protested. "Please, darling. I've worked out exactly what I need to say."

"Okaaaaay," she said again, meekly this time, not knowing whether to love him wildly at the moment or be upset with him. Or rather at what he was doing.

"We can try to forget what happened in that town and in that house during your childhood, but we can't hide from what we learned about you and your mother and Mae. You may never marry me, but every once in a while maybe I'd like to indulge in the fantasy." He paused to take a faltering breath before charging ahead in a rush. "Stacy is a cute name, and you know the only name I like as much as yours is Lyla. But I'm not sure about Julia. I think there is another name I'd prefer."

Another name he'd prefer for babies that could never and would never be? Had he lost his mind? Della merely nodded, her eyes big and concerned.

"One of those little girls should be named Danielle, or Daniela. I insist."

"Okaaaaay," she repeated slowly, concern giving way to genuine worry.

"I just wanted you to know that." He sat back in the chair, his normal coloring beginning to return. "You can look in the box now."

"Okaaaay," she said for a fourth time, and dragged the box closer.

Lush blue velvet covered whatever was contained in the box. She removed the fabric and what was revealed brought instant tears, despite her resolve never to cry again.

Tucked among folds of more blue velvet was 'one of them' shadow boxes. Inside the shadow box was a stone. A grey stone flecked with black, about the size of Perry's hand. The stone had been polished to a smooth, matte gloss, which made the name carved into it stand out even more.

DANIEL

END


End file.
